


No Superman

by WhoNatural



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bottom Derek, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Bromance of epic proportions, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Doctors, Drinking, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Implied Suicide Attempt, M/M, Medicine, Minor Character Death, Minor description of a panic attack, No Stalia, Office Sex, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Pining, Relationship Problems, Sarcasm, Scrubs - Freeform, Slow Build, Spit As Lube, Versatile Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Weddings, Workplace Sex, hospital au, mentions of depression, questionable treatment of old people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/pseuds/WhoNatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AKA The Sterek Scrubs AU)</p><p>In which Stiles learns that med school didn’t prepare him for much at all; even the most epic of bromances can be weakened with the right amount of long, curly hair and dimples; and sometimes, first impressions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be - it’s the digging beneath the bravado that reveals who’s worth getting to know a little better.</p><p>Dr. Hale’s probably still a dick, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Internship

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [No Superman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128396) by [ElasticLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticLove/pseuds/ElasticLove)



> So I'm probably going to become that girl who takes your most beloved off-air shows and mashes them up with Teen Wolf to make really unoriginal AUs. I'm kind of okay with this.
> 
> I miss classic Scrubs hard.
> 
> BTW, I in no way ship JD with Dr. Cox, but after drawing parallels with the sarcastic-curmudgeon meets adorably-excitable-spaz I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was also so fun matching up Teen Wolf characters with their Scrubs counterparts. Give it a try!
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about medicine. Any glaring mistakes are evidence of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the end notes of Chapter 5 if Malia's presence in the character tags is cause for concern for you.

 

There were three things of which Stiles was completely sure. One: when he was over-thinking, his inner monologue started to sound suspiciously like Bella Swan. Two: despite the inevitable confidence building it achieves (and the first-day-jitters it was meant to relieve), standing in front of the bathroom mirror at six am, wearing nothing but a stethoscope and boxer-briefs while practising all the ways one can sexily say  _Dr. Genim Stilinski_  (which was kind of useless, because that first name will  _never_  be sexy) is not an adequate use of one's time. Three: four years of pre-med, four years of medical school and the kind of student loans his father  _laughed out loud_  upon seeing (which he will be paying back until he has his own son to laugh at) had taught him one thing.

He didn't know shit.

It's not like he expected to just walk in here knowing everything (that was that douche Jackson's department), but the sheer volume level of the place once he'd pushed open the doors of Sacred Heart kind of made him want to shout ' _nope',_ turn tail and run. It's his first day, so there's bound to be some nerves, but he hadn't quite expected  _this_. More than anything, he's a little worried about how Scott's been doing - the guy never really did adjust to change well - but it seems that despite being Epic Bros all through high school, pre-med and indeed med school, texting throughout your first shift ever is probably frowned upon. It's still just a little difficult to believe that Scott will be trusted to cut people open when Stiles can remember that time he super glued his foot to, well, his  _other_  foot.

It'd just be nice to know he wasn't the only one who wanted to curl into the foetal position and wail, okay? He spares a thought for Lydia. She's the strawberry-blonde goddess who he met yesterday at orientation, but he's pretty sure she's healing the sick with the power of her beauty and looks of disapproval alone.

" _What the hell is a 'Stiles', anyway? I don't sleep with other doctors at the same stage of training. I prefer my relationships to be mutually beneficial, and you just don't have anything I need. Plus, it's clear I intimidate you. Wait, am I being Punk'd?_ "

(Afterwards, she proceeded to tell him if he continued to hit on her, she'd use him as early practice for a urology rotation and see how many sharp things she could stick somewhere which should only be treated with kindness.)

Granted, it had been a pleasant surprise to find out that, for once, the odds were stacked a little more in his favor and she'd be donning medical blue scrubs instead of surgical green. She's the only person who seems to have him matched in sheer volume and speed of thought process, but he can't exactly figure out if he's attracted to her or just terrified of her - and he refuses to wonder how much therapy  _that_  should warrant. It's still a win that he'll be getting to spend time with her when Scott usually seems to luck out on those kinds of scenarios.

But still, there's no sign of either of them. Not that he's really looking.

_Deep breaths._

He wants to ask the nurse who paged him within the first five minutes (Yay! Paged!) if there was some kind of epidemic that hadn't made it to the news yet - though, granted, he'd been listening to Taylor Swift at full volume and singing along in the jeep on the way here, so he didn't catch the hourly update - but she's already been talking for a full minute and he's pretty sure she just said something about looking where he's going.

Yep, that's gonna bruise.

"Rule number one of your first day, Bambi. The nurses know more than you do."

"Wow, thanks-"

"Nurse Argent, but I'm probably more likely to answer if you call me Allison," she smiles - there's no malice in it, but he's already mentally labelling her She Who Is Not To Be Pissed Off.

"Do I have to name you after a Disney character now, too?" he asks, massaging his nose. He's not sure if it's broken and he's trying not to have a mini freak-out that  _he's a doctor and he should know_  but Allison's swatting his hand away to give him a tissue and raising her eyebrow.

"Not unless you never want to see a chart or get labs back on time," she warns, rounding the desk at the nurses' station again and it actually sounds more like she's offering him a puppy. "Make no mistake. We run your world now. Isn't that right, Vern?"

There's a large, muscled man in nursing scrubs sitting with his feet either side of a portable television, behind her. It looks like it's playing  _The Young and the Restless,_  but Stiles can't be sure.

"Mm-hmm," the guy says, not tearing his eyes away. Allison flicks her curly black locks back proudly and gives a nod.

"That's Nurse Boyd," she introduces, and her eyes brighten up a little in mirth. "Just 'Nurse Boyd' to you."

"Okay, no nicknames, got it."

She's walking again, pulling the gurney along in front of Stiles and he's not sure if the Bambi nickname has to do with how his legs have decided to turn to jello, giving him a baby deer-type quality, or the oh-crap-I'm-about-to-get-run-over look on his face, but he tries to keep up. She flits around the room they stop at, checking the other IVs and monitors while Stiles kind of just stands there bleeding from the nose and tries not to ask if he can hold her hand or something.

"We're waiting for Dr. Hale," she says, pulling back the dressing on the old man's foot. Before he can open his mouth to ask what the Chief of Medicine would be doing mingling with the commoners, a figure appears at the door which he's pretty sure should be accompanied by a booming rendition of The Imperial March and a heavy, black rain cloud above his head.

Which is disturbing, because he's got the kind of face which belongs on Grey's Anatomy with some cutesy nickname, but  _holy fuck_ the expression on it could be used as a laxative. It's a scowl. An honest-to-god  _scowl_ and Stiles is pretty sure those could only be pulled off by cartoon villains and cats on the Internet, but there it is. McScowly's got it nailed.

It's not the same guy he met yesterday -  _that_ Dr. Hale had been older, pretty charming and approachable - but there's got to be some family tie in there somewhere, what with the whole depressingly-perfect-jaw-lines-and-intense-eyes thing.

"Seriously?" the guy says, well, more grunts incredulously, "He does this every day. Is it so hard to stay alive until my shift's done?" McScowly flips through Old Man's chart. "Or at least until I've checked the stats on the-" he stops and glances over the top of the clipboard at Stiles. "Can I help you?"

Oh, right. There was a reason his brain was running through tall-dark-and-handsome-and-holy-chest-definition as a mantra. He was staring.

"Me? No- I was... I'm your...Hello." Stiles starts to wave, before thinking better of it and shoving the offending hand down with his other hand.

McScowly gives Allison a look which seems to say  _'are you kidding me?'_  and ' _make it go away_ ' all at once and she snorts out a laugh.

"This is Doc-," she starts, but he shuts the chart and tucks it under his arm with a roll of the eyes.

"Yeah, they all have names. It's adorable. Happy for them, really," he says, brows rising in mock earnest before he turns to Stiles again. "New kid, IV. Now."

Stiles startles and fumbles around a bit, willing himself to recall the one thing he should be able to do on his first day as an intern but the whole presense of the guy is throwing off his confidence.

"Are you trying to get to know each other? He's not going to be offended that you didn't buy him dinner first," Hale says from beside the monitors, and Stiles tries not to glare, he really tries. "In fact, he can't hold a fork, so it's kind of a moot point. Christ, come  _on..._ "

"Should you really be talking like that in front of him?" Stiles spits out, because apparently he has a death wish. Hale gives him a look that's somewhere between ' _now you die_ ' and ' _what is happening I don't get it_ ' and raises a single brow. It's the most frightening thing he's seen all year.

"Listen..."

"Stiles," he supplies meekly, and Hale's head jerks back.

"That's not a name."

"Um, yeah it is," Stiles nods defensively. "It's my name."

"That's  _not_ a name."

"Wha-" Stiles starts, outraged. "It could be some super-important...religious... _symbolic_  name for all you know."

"Is it?"

"Well, no..."

"Because it's not a name," he finishes, and despite the bland expression on his face, there's a slight note of triumph in there. "Anyway," he squints at Stiles' ID, "'Stilinski'...  _God, even worse_... This man is a vegetable. A potato. He's on another plane of consciousness. He's not going to care what I say about him, or how I say it, now can you please replace his damn IV so I can get back to lunch?"

Stiles glares, but does it - out of sheer frustration - and promptly stands upright, staring Hale down. He can't remember the last time someone got his hackles up so effortlessly - and he met that dick, Jackson, at orientation yesterday. Hale leans across the bed slightly to get a look at the IV, gives a satisfied little,  _hmph_  in thought, and leaves the room.

* * *

 "And he's just so  _smug_ , y'know? God. I hope I never end up so jaded like that."

It's been an eighteen hour shift, Stiles forgets how many of these he's had, also what his bed in the apartment he shares with Scott is like, and young Dr. Hale has done little to quash Stiles' initial impressions of him (that he's an asshole). Stiles is aware he's been talking about the guy a lot, but come on. Last night he actually  _clicked his fingers_  at him and told him to have his little panic attack some time later, preferably at home where it's not Hale's problem. Guy obviously forgot it's like to be an intern. And so what if Stiles drifts off into his own head sometimes? It's not like it's ever when he's doing something life-threateningly important.

"Yeah..."

"Scott?" he asks, waving his hand in front of his best friend's face, but it's a lost cause. Allison's chewing on a pen as she does something on the computer in front of her and Scott is  _gone._

"Dude, I can introduce you properly, you know," he sighs, and Scott looks at him in panic. It's starting to feel slightly creepy how Scott insists on hanging back from the desk and just looking at her when she's not aware of it.

"No! No it's okay. I'm... working up to it. It's fine."

Stiles is about to call him out on that, when Jackson saunters up, all biceps and swagger and leans over the desk. "Careful," he says to Allison, nodding at the pen. "You'll ruin your appetite."

"For what?" Allison says, scrunching up her nose and tearing her eyes away from the computer. Whatever Jackson's response is, it can't be pretty - because her face pales and she looks at him with a clench to her jaw. Stiles can feel Scott stiffening beside him, ready to jump in and rescue the damsel in distress, but Stiles keeps a hold on his elbow.

"Wait a second," he whispers, jerking his chin thoughtfully to the train-wreck in front of them. Stiles has seen this many times; been  _involved_  in this very scenario many, many times. It's the strike-out. "Dude, let her handle this. He's crashing and burning."

Sure enough, Allison gives a sweet smile and motions for Jackson to come closer. When he does, she hooks a finger in his scrub top, yanks, and he crashes onto the desk. Allison takes advantage of the proximity and whispers something into his ear, letting go of his top, and Jackson backs up warily. When he finally turns, Allison scoffs and throws her pen after him. It's beautiful.

Stiles snickers softly as Jackson walks past, offering a high-five (because all six times he's met Jackson over the past week has ended in a high-five) but he just gets a slightly-dazed wave-off in response.

"That. Was.  _Awesome_ ," Stiles remarks, turning to Scott, who has now graduated from staring to loving-gaze.

"I think I'm in  _love,_ " he breathes, finally taking a step towards the nurses' station. He stops to turn slightly, diving his hand into a protesting Stiles' pocket and fishing out his prize, before he continues onwards to the desk. "Pen?" he asks, holding it out to her, and Allison startles slightly, like she hadn't seen him approach.

There's a small crinkle to her brow when she looks from the pen to Scott, and Stiles is mentally willing  _puppy face puppy face puppy face_  over and over in his head - because no girl has been able to resist that since Scott got into med school.

"...Thanks?" she says, taking the pen out of his hand. Scott practically  _preens_.

"No problem, Allison," he says, turning to walk off.

"Wait, how do you know my-" she starts, only to give a weary smile and a shake of her head as she watches Stiles pull him into a headlock. "...Never mind,  _Scott._ "

Scott flashes her a smile over his shoulder before turning it back onto Stiles. "You've been talking me up to her?" he asks quietly, eyes fond.

"I'm your wing-man, Scotty Mac. I never miss an opportunity for layage."

"You're the  _best._ "

* * *

 It's amazing how life sort of settles into a routine without you really noticing it, and how a job that once made you feel like you were teetering on the top of a dip on a roller-coaster can become second nature.

How you can do everything fucking right but receive no recognition for it, but then again, he didn't expect much. Sometimes it looks like Dr. Hale would have an aneurysm if he cracked a genuine smile and Stiles fantasizes about giving him a hug - that's it, he swears - just to see his reaction, but he also kind of values his trachea where it is and in tact.

It's unfathomable how you can kind-of-sort-of- get used to the fact that people trust your best friend to be there around sharp objects when they're being cut open, even though he still refers to a cracked chest cavity as 'gnarly'.

Dr. Hale still refuses to call Stiles by his first name, even though they've ended up working together most, and doesn't think switching shifts to accommodate for a midnight screening of the new  _Ironman_  movie is a  _'legitimate enough reason, just because you have the mentality of a twelve-year-old doesn't mean I should be your enabler, Stilinski'._

There's also a lot of poorly-hidden, self-satisfied smirks, which Stiles thinks are even more obnoxious on someone who looks like _that._

He has to help treat three cars full of people who got into a fender-bender at the intersection on the way home from the movie theatre that night, most of whom are nursing limited edition cups, laser arm-cuffs and masks.

Which is just fucking unfair.

The movie's so good people are  _crashing their cars_ , and Scott's going to be vibrating with the need to tell him all about it when he gets home tomorrow morning.

Stiles hates his life and Hale even more.

Okay, so, even  _if_  he manages to get on an amazing case with a private patient who happens to have the coolest roboti- sorry,  _prosthetic_  hand he's ever seen (it's like, Nina-Sharp-from- _Fringe_  cool; a once in a lifetime patient unless he goes into that field), but still, Stiles refuses to be happy.

It doesn't mean anything if he can't stop grinning and keeps catching Hale giving him sidelong looks of contentment as he gets the patient's history. Like he's calculated the whole thing and he likes seeing a plan come together.

The dude's back from climbing the fucking Andes and was girlfriend-bullied to get his foot checked out for fear that his childhood osteosarcoma has returned, and Stiles is given free reign to order tests and cultures as much as he likes because hello _... private._ But there's no way anyone here's doing the lowly intern any favors just because it's a super-cool case.

Hale's still a dick who should have let him go to the movie.

* * *

 Conversely, Chief Peter Hale is like the cool uncle Stiles never had; is nothing like his sarcastic, dry-witted nephew; and rounds with him are an exercise in adrenaline responses and a quest for praise. He moves around the ward with a practised pace, interns like ducklings following each move and hanging on every word. The need to impress is almost tangible.

Lydia is there, up front and centre, and Stiles can feel himself gravitating to her side, as always, like he hasn't got a choice. Everyone else seems to cower in the face of her confidence. He wonders if they have the sense of self-preservation his dad maintained he'd been born without. Certainly Lahey seems to want to get as far away as possible, hands trembling where he's meticulously clicking his pen and darting his eyes around the room as if waiting to be attacked.

Lydia smells like coconut.

"...patient is uraemic. Dr. Stilinski?"

_Crap. What the fuck did he just ask me?_

He can feel the press of her body all down the left side of his, her breath teasing the short hairs around his ear and something in Stiles' brain short-circuits. That's settled - Lydia Martin is  _the devil_.

Chief Hale is looking at him expectantly, but all Stiles can do is gape, smacking his dry lips together as he raises his brows, willing the answer to come to him miraculously. After an eternity of silence, Hale's eyes narrow with a smirk, and he poses the question to the group.

"Infection?" Lydia says, all naive innocence and feminine wiles.

The smirk pulls into a full grin, and - _oh god, why does that smile make me uncomfortable?_  - as Hale says, "Beauty  _and_ brains. Aren't  _you_  just a gift."

Instead of the predicted outrage at being objectified, Lydia  _preens_  and Stiles  _glares_  and wonders why he didn't listen to her when she warned that she'd crush him if he got in her way. The look she gives him as she sashays ahead to the next bed seems to convey the same thing.

* * *

 

"How come Mr. Lewis was discharged?"

There's an uncomfortable look passed between Boyd and Allison, and Stiles holds his hands out wider as he waits for a response. He'd just gone to check in with the guy at the end of his shift, only to find the room empty.

"He didn't have the insurance to cover the treatment you ordered," Allison says apologetically, cocking her head to the side and making it really hard for Stiles to stay mad at everyone.

"But... he'll be back in here by Christmas. All we did was - essentially - a patch-up. Who the hell would do that to a father of four?" he says, a crinkle furrowing his brow as the gravity of the situation riles him up. They'd consulted on this guy together, Hale even telling Stiles that he could choose the direction for treatment on this one (once he'd signed off on it, obviously).

Because Stiles had shown good judgement.

Because he can  _be trusted_  on this. Now the patient is gone, and Stiles is feeling stung.

"Did Dr. Hale do this? I kinda like to be bought Italian food before I'm _screwed_. Thought we were in agreement about-" he starts, but a door slams back against the wall where it's been kicked, and a cart goes flying halfway across the room before a nurse manages to stop it.

Hale stalks past, all eyebrows and intensity, his jaw set so stiffly it looks like he could crack teeth. If he'd ever felt that someone had earned his mental nickname for them, McScowly is it - but the cutesy reference feels wrong when it looks like they're going to lose someone who should, by rights, have another forty years ahead of him.

Stiles opens his mouth to broach the subject, but is greeted instead by a searing gaze which refuses to land on his own and a shake of the head.

Stiles presses his mouth together, licks his lips and just watches him go.

"Think he'd be that upset if this was  _his_  decision, man?" Boyd says with sympathy, and Stiles can only quirk his mouth in reply.

* * *

 Being on-call is a special kind of hell. It's drunks and addicts and scum-bags who think it's okay to knock their wives around and say she walked into a door. There are worried parents of toddlers and college students needing stitches after a game of beer pong gone awry. It gets to the point where, even when his beeper isn't screaming and vibrating, he imagines it is, and he tries not to hate Scott too much when he salutes him on his way out the door. His way home.

He's slumped against the outer wall of Mr Lewis' room - who, since being back has crashed twice already tonight - and just lets his breath leave him. It's times like this - and on nights like these - that Stiles wishes more than ever that he had a quiet brain. Somewhere to fold into when the din of everything else threatens to crack his resolve, but Stiles has never been the quiet type and, in all honesty, he probably wouldn't last two minutes of he didn't have some tangent to latch on to.

There's a warm hand squeezing his shoulder, and when he looks up, he doesn't recognize the guy in the janitor's jumpsuit staring at him intently.

"Alright, now," he says, chewing furiously, kneading Stiles' shoulder like he's in the corner of a ring about to take on Tyson. "I don't want them to gain another yard. You blitz... all... night..."

"Isn't that-" Stiles interjects, but the guy talks over him.

"If they cross the line of scrimmage, I'm gonna take every last one of you out! You make sure they remember, forever, the night they played the Titans!"

The guy raises both fists in the air and walks around the hallway in triumph, jaw still grinding even as he turns back, fixes a glare on Stiles and points, nodding his head.

"How the hell is the speech from  _Remember The Titans_ supposed to help me?" he snaps incredulously, voice sounding as irritable and tired as he feels. "Stick to mopping up puke, dude. I don't need your crappy recycled sports stuff." The guy stops, drops his hands in offense, and just  _stares._  Stiles' head jerks back as if slapped, eyes widening. "Or.. uh... go team?"

The Janitor barks out a harsh, forced laugh, but stops the moment Stiles tries to smile. It's really unnerving. Without another word, he backs up, gesturing to his own eyes with pointer and middle finger, before turning his hand on Stiles, and before he can say anything, he's grabbed his mop and gone.

Stiles pronounced his first patient on-call, and he thinks he should feel some sense of relief or triumph when he later finds out that Lahey pronounced three his  _very_   _first_  night, but there isn't any of that. All that time spent learning how to preserve life, and there's precious little to prepare you for when medicine fails. Words don't offer much to the grieving families, so they aren't much help to Stiles either, and The Janitor's speech didn't help at all.

* * *

 For all that living in the same apartment means, sometimes Stiles feels like Scott's in another country. Their schedules collide, it feels like Allison practically has him on a leash (even though talking to her would hardly lead you to believe she ever sees him at all) and sleep is like a precious commodity reserved for kings and really cute puppies. Stiles still isn't sure who's been feeding their pet gecko, Jackson (ha), but minor details are pushed to the bottom on his list of Very Important Information in light of the fact that he and Scott can't get home for the Holidays and are having Christmas together. As bros. It's a miracle.

Stiles thinks he may cry a little.

The simple fact is, he misses Scott like a limb, and he knows all about branching out and fresh starts and all that stuff - but it feels like enough has changed this year already, and it's his first Christmas without Dad  _ever_ (not that Dad's crying over his cocktails in Hawaii where he's gone for his late-late honeymoon, or anything) _,_ and he's not quite ready to lease out Scott's position at his right hand.

Even if the dude  _does_  keep coming home and telling him how squelchy intestines are, or what noise a kidney makes if you drop it. Or if he actually seems to revel in the endless high-fives Douchey Whittemore doles out. Scott's still fourteen at heart.

It's made even better by the fact that Dr. Hale's sister's in town for the holidays, and try as he might to be a sarcastic, egotistical ass regardless of her presence, we all revert to the person we once were when around someone from our past. For him, it's petulant little brother.

She's a lawyer, and gorgeous, and Hale threatens Jackson with some kind of medieval torture for staring at her too long, but the only person she seems interested to know is Stiles.

"Twenty-five?" she hums, stirring her fruit salad. "Practically a baby. How come you're still so young?" She keeps flicking gaze to her brother who is doing a fantastic impression of someone masticating broken glass and wasps.

Stiles shrugs. "I skipped a grade in high school, graduated early," he informs, and Laura studies him. "Good thing, too - otherwise I wouldn't have met Scott and dragged his ass through college." Stiles gives a proud little grin and Hale's shaking his head into his lasagne.

"So you're like... brilliant," she says, leaning back and propping an elbow on Dr. Hale's - ' _Derek's'_ \- chair. She lets out a breath and gives him an assessing look, but there's a warm curiosity in it. "Of  _course_  you are."

Hale clears his throat and stabs a fork in Stiles' direction, resolutely avoiding his sister's smirk. "You can go hang out with Allison and her puppy if you want, Stilinski," he says, jerking his chin behind Stiles and raising both brows, but Laura has a hand on his arm before he can move, and the Janitor's twisting the head off a broom right beside Scott's table, staring straight back at him menacingly. "Don't let Cruella keep you."

"Cruella?" Laura snorts.  _"Please,_  if anyone here's preying on innocent little creatures here, it's you. I haven't even got around to sizing up this year's crop because they're so afraid of Big Bad Dr. Hale." She turns back to Stiles. "Did he do the whole humiliation-and-stress-pressure-test with you yet? Make you feel like shit and then demand you do some bullshit procedure while he watches?"

Stiles presses his lips together and plays with his soda straw, while Laura points and chastises her brother for being so predictable.

"Jeez, Dr. Hale, I feel kind of used," Stiles says. "What about when you complimented my sutures? I bet you say that to all the boys." The look he gets in return would strip paint, and Laura's actually covering her grin with her hand

"Laura, for fuck  _sake_ ," Hale grunts, and she gets up, laughing, to empty her tray.

"Don't worry, Stiles, you passed with flying colors," she calls over her shoulder, still stifling what could only be described as a cackle.

There's a stretch of silence then, without her, and Stiles wonders how long he has to stay before it's not obvious he's just leaving because she did.

"So, your sister's fun..."

"She's Satan. That movie  _Bedazzled_  was based on her."

Stiles snorts loudly and takes a drink. "Dude, you do not want me picturing your sister in a red catsuit, I don't care if you  _are_ my boss.." he jibes to Hale's scowl. "Still. It's good that she's here for the Holidays. Did I tell you I'm spending mine with Scott? It's gonna be Bro-mas. Beer before noon, pants optional, and everything in sandwich form."

Hale's eyes flick over Stiles' shoulder at something, and he gives a tight-lipped nod. "Sounds fun, Stiles, not that I asked," he says, all bravado now that his big sister's split, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Wow, Dr. Hale. Touching moment here between colleagues. Remind me to get it printed on a mug."

Hale's still distracted and Stiles can't help but try figure out what that look on his face means before he speaks again.

"Just..." there's a sigh, and then Hale's looking back at him earnestly. "I get that you guys are close, and that this year is shit because you moved and are working and the whole 'change' thing, but... don't pin your happiness all on one person, okay? Especially if they're not pinning theirs back on you."

After that, he gets up and leaves, and Stiles later wonders if Hale had seen it coming when Scott made Stiles put on a tie and invited Allison over at ten am Christmas morning, thus ruining and pre-emptively nixing Bro-mas before it could even begin.

* * *

 If there's one thing that Stiles had learned early on, it's that his smile is kryptonite for old ladies. When Scott isn't around - and Lahey's huddled in some supply closet crying - he spends his free time with the geriatric patients playing Scrabble or sitting through endless photos of grand-kids or driving trips across country. Over the months, he's become somewhat of a permanent fixture, and some of his very favorites even get to call him by his real first name.

It's not like they get out much to spread around what the 'G' on his ID card stands for.

"Dammit, Etta. You know if this was _Strip Checkers_ you'd be pointing at my pasty white butt and laughing right about now.."

The old woman winks one of her heavily-mascara-ed eyes and gives him a lingering look.

"It's still not too late for that, dear," she says, and Stiles swallows down an uncomfortable blush. (For every grandma who wants to pet his head and bake him snickerdoodles, there's always another who's rediscovered her libido and decided fresh young doctor-meat is what her diet has been lacking). "You look just like my Alfred before he shipped out," she muses.

"Well, Alfred was one sexy sailor," Stiles replies, winking, before spotting a disapproving flash of red through the blinds. "We're gonna have to pick this up later, though. Don't you go cheating on me. I'll know."

"No point if we're not playing the fun version," she purrs back, and Stiles' laugh sounds like a chihuahua giving birth.

"What's your angle?" Lydia asks, after she's yanked him out of Mrs Flynn's room and away from woeful-board-game-defeat-slash-semi-senile-sexual-aggression. He resolutely tells himself that there's no shame in being savagely beaten by an octogenarian. Lydia's looking at him calculatingly, like his answer is of some great mystical importance she can't quite figure out.

"Angle?" he says, keeping his chest to her, and the pair of boobs spray-painted into the back of his scrub top by The Janitor in the elevator that morning out of her view.

(Apparently not appreciating fantastic sports movies earned him drawn-on breasts. C-cup, if he were to guess.)

"With the grandmas," she clarifies. "Tell me there's a reason you've been spending more time here than the Angel of Death. Inheritance scam?"

Stiles frowns. "Wow," he says, "I thought your cold, dead heart was just part of your aloof charm, but there must have been something seriously bad that happened to make you assume the worst in everyone." The realization is dawning that, far from the rest of the world disappointing Lydia Martin, she reserves disappointment for the rest of the world. Her lips quirk on one side as she studies him, and he sighs. "I like being around them, okay? It was just me and my dad growing up. My Grams was a big part of my life. Do you see hordes of grand-kids beating the doors down to visit?"

She looks sceptical, and he fidgets slightly, scratching at the hairs at the back of his neck.

"Okay.. well I also," he starts, and notices her eyes narrowing. "I lost a patient last night. Guy we probably could've saved before it got bad, if he had the right insurance, but the Powers That Be kept throwing up roadblocks so we'd pawn him off somewhere else. He had four kids. I...couldn't-" he confesses, wondering why he feels the need to tell her of all people. "I'm just... trying to put some good back into the world, I guess."

Her face seems to soften momentarily with - what looks like - shame, but Lydia Martin is chastised by no man - or at least has the pride to never show it. She shrugs and gives a small, thoughtful smile.  _"Hmph,_ " she mutters, more to herself than anyone in the moderately busy hallway; as if a point's been proven, or she lost a bet, and Stiles wonders why people always seem to say that around him now.

He frowns back at her, folding his arms. "What's this all about, Lydia?" he asks, but she just shakes her head, stepping closer.

"Stiles?" she says, "It's a good thing I warned you off me in the first place. Guy like you, it'd be a crying shame to eat you alive." She trails a thumb down his cheek fondly before she turns away. "You're still buying me platonic, obligation-free lunch though."

"I am?" he frowns, because though she's beautiful and he kind of feels like he needs permission to look at her, there seems to be very little in the friendship for him. She's hardly warmth and light and he can't imagine calling her up at 3am because he's drunk and heartbroken.

"Yep. 'Cause I just realized that I pathetically have yet to make any friends in this city, and you're the most tolerable person here," she calls back, not turning. All he can do is gesture after her, his hands willing the words of confusion that aren't being spoken. "Don't worry. I'm not going to try to fuck you," she adds, and Stiles can't help but feel like he's just been pushed out of the way of a high-speed, oncoming train.

* * *

 "I'm sure it's not really like that," Allison says, like the eternal peace-keeper that she is. For someone who makes such thinly-veiled threats, she spends a lot of time diffusing other people's anger.

"It's exactly like that," Lydia retorts, "Back me up, Isaac."

Lahey looks stricken, but then again he usually does. "Well, kind of... look, I'm just happy when he isn't threatening to stab me in the eye with my own clavicle."

Stiles lets out a chuckle at that, and three pairs of eyes turn to look, as Lydia huffs out an impatient sigh.

"See?" she says, gesturing to him, "Here he is. Let me guess, you just saved a baby single-handedly on the roof's helipad."

"We don't have a helipad," Stiles frowns, and there's a dangerous hand being rested on Lydia's hip. "What's going on?"

"I was just telling these guys how it must pay to be teacher's pet," she says primly, and Stiles face scrunches up. "Come on, don't tell me you haven't noticed that your Hale's go-to-guy?"

"In fairness," Isaac interrupts, "I think that has something to do with the fact that he doesn't flirt with his uncle..."

Stiles gapes and Lydia fumes.

"Excuse me?"

"Well," Isaac says, not so brave anymore. "He might have mentioned the fact that 'mean girls in high school' rarely learn how to do things the hard way."

Lydia's jaw drops and she appears to growl menacingly.

"So he thinks I'm coasting by on my looks? she says, eyes on the floor and voice tense."

Isaac holds out his hands.

"Look, Lyds, he doesn't know you - I mean, you've barely worked together since you've been here and even then you've butted heads," Stiles says, and Lydia's gaze is drawn up to his eyes again.

He wants to say that he's nothing special, that he has no idea why Hale would appear to favor him over the others - especially since he's unsure of what the hell he's supposed to be doing half the time. He doesn't say it though, because though he's admitted defeat a hundred times in his head, he thinks everyone else has seen too much already.

She seems to shake it off pretty quickly, and reaches out to pat Stiles on the jaw fondly.

"You're right, Stiles," she says, smirking, "I guess doesn't help that my flirting would be lost on him either...not his type." And with that, she saunters off, Stiles is left frowning, much to the entertainment of Allison, Boyd and Isaac. He just reaches up to scratch at his cheek.

"What-" he starts, but Allison holds up both hands and backs away.

"Oh no. If you can't figure it out yourself, I'm not getting involved," she says.

Isaac is next, inflicting those damn Baby-St-Bernard eyes on him as he moves away, which leaves Boyd, who doesn't actively acknowledge Stiles' presence, but mutters something about ' _Give me strength'_ quietly to his computer screen and carries on texting his grandmother.

Stiles is left to frown and make his way back to the jeep, whose paint job has been sold for ad-space supporting the local sports teams. Stiles isn't spending too much time trying to solve  _that_ mystery, but the lack of confusion is a comfort.

* * *

 "Now, I know you didn't just page me  _twice_  to ask about Mrs Faison's antibiotics," Hale announces as he enters the break room. Stiles pauses with half a sandwich to his mouth and stares back guiltily.

"I, uh..."

"Because you know this is standard stuff, right? Stuff we prescribe to  _children_ , and there's no history of allergy on her chart, no  _reason_  to hesitate here. Or do you just enjoy my particular brand of dry wit, Stilinski?"

He's right, and Stiles knows it, but the feeling of failure at announcing someone's time of death is still fresh in his mind.

"I wanted to be sure is all."

Hale's eyes narrow as he takes a seat. "See, that's what's funny. Seven months ago, you were about the only intern who  _wasn't_  being a pain in my ass during the precious hours of the day where I get to spend quality time with my cable reception and a large Meat Lover's in my underwear."

Stiles drops the sandwich and sighs, obliquely surprised at how little that mental image disgusts him. In fact, it-

 _Nope_.  _Not even thinking of going there..._

"Yeah, you're right. Guess I was just-" he starts, but peers at Hale before deciding that this is  _not_  the guy he wants to show weakness in front of. "Never mind, I'll handle it."

There's a beat of silence before Hale lets out a breath and leans forward in the chair. He clasps his hands in front of him, and his eyes are soft; some strange mixture of green-blue-brown that stands out even under the artificial lighting.

"Stiles, look," he says. "If you're going to make it through this, you have to start trusting your own judgement. Losing people is shit, okay? Sometimes what we do is a daily kick in the fucking balls. But the minute you take that home with you, and let it start to eat you, that's the minute you're done."

He seems to be picking his words carefully, which Stiles has never seen before. It's... disconcerting.

"It wasn't a failure in knowledge that lost Lewis - it was the fucking system, and I know it sounds like a bullshit excuse - and it is, it really is when someone had to sit down his seven-year-old and explain where her daddy's gone - but it's just how we have to justify it in our heads."

He chews on his bottom lip for a beat and Stiles watches, needing this, needing something that will make it seem like he's not crazy to still even give a shit about it all.

"So make yourself feel better. Lie to yourself - whatever. Just stop second guessing the easy stuff. After that, as you learn, the rest kind of... falls into place."

Stiles stares somewhat dumbly, surprised at the show of humility from the guy who walks around like the place owes him a favor. Like nothing gets under his skin and Stiles had wondered  _how._

"Okay," he croaks back, setting his hands on the table.

"Good," he beams, and it looks like a shark. "Now, if the next time you page me, someone isn't fucking  _dying_ , I'll make sure someone is. Understand?"

_There he is._

"Sure. Understood," Stiles replies, rolling his eyes.

So maybe Stiles had been hoping that he'd find someone that he could look up to. Aspire to be like.

It probably isn't this guy.


	2. Residency - 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahh, thanks to everyone who subscribed, and I'm sorry I've been crappy about updating this. If you need an explanation, go [here ](http://derek-tion.tumblr.com/post/48579929998/hi-first-of-all-i-wanted-to-say-that-everything-you). I've got a better idea of the plotting/pacing now, so it won't take me so long next time!

"And you're just.... I _love_ you, y'know?

Stiles nods, eyes brimming with tears as he squeezes the hand Scott has looped around his shoulder. They're drunk - so very, _very_ drunk - and probably should have been kicked out of the bar hours ago, if it wasn't for Allison working some hot-girl voodoo and explaining that they're all celebrating becoming super grown-up residents.

"I know, dude. You're like... like... my _soulmate_. I would _die_ for you," he slurs back, closing one eye to try and stop Scott from moving around so much. Maybe there are two Scotts, Stiles can't be sure, but if there were, it'd be _awesome_. "I'd give you a kidney. Do-- d'you need a kidney? You could cut it out of me 'cause you're _so_ good at surgeoning and stuff."

Scott's bottom lip trembles. "I know you really mean that, man. You always believed in me."

"I do!" Stiles nods vehemently. "Jus'...just don't let Jackson in the OR because you're the _only one_ I'd let inside me."

"Oh _brother_..." Lydia groans, because she's clearly too dead inside to appreciate Epic Bromance.

Scott points to her excitedly with the hand still holding his beer. "Yes! He's--" he turns back to Stiles, face melting into a loving smile. "He's like, the brother I never had, you know?"

Stiles buries his face in Scott's neck, completely overcome with love for him and every single person in the bar. Everyone is awesome. Except Jackson. He can suck a dick.

"Looks like I'm going back to my own place tonight," Allison sighs, as Lydia raises a questioning brow; Stiles can see it even though he's nuzzling Scott's shoulder. "When they get like this, they like to build a fort and then sleep beside each other, telling secrets with flashlights," she explains.

"Dude! Fort Callinski! Please?!"

Scott's eyes widen, and he nods like one of those little dogs you stick on the dashboard of your car.

"Uh- _huh_! I... Wait." He turns to Allison, unleashing Epic Puppy Face. "Is that okay? You know I love you and I totally worship everything you are as a person--"

Allison just waves his plea off with a sigh as she stands. "Yes, it's fine. And I'm going to order another round while I try to pretend that _that_ wasn't the first time you've told me you love me."

Stiles’ brows shoot up he turns to his best friend. " _Dude_."

Scott, however, is too busy trying to open up the camera app on his phone to realize how much trouble he's going to be in tomorrow.

"Lyd...Lyd-ee-uh, take a picture of me n' Stiles!"

"Why am I even here?" she says, catching the phone before it falls into Stiles' Appletini (shut up, they're _delicious_ ).

"Because we want you and Allison to be friends even though you said she has a 'big, fat, Judgmental Big Sister complex'," Stiles explains, with air-quotes, just realizing a little too late that Allison is back at their table. "Or you... didn't...say that...ever. Sshh! Scott, be quiet!"

"Huh?"

There's an awkward silence as the two women eye each other, Allison slumping into the chair with a crook of her brow. "Judgemental big sister?"

All heads turn to Lydia, who, granted, looks ashamed for about a split second - before pursing her lips and shrugging, "Pretty much."

It’s like the sound has completely cut out of the bar, and Stiles kind of wants to grab Scott’s hand, so he does. Whatever, drunk bros are tactile bros.

"Guess that's fair,” Allison finally nods, taking a long sip of her vodka tonic. “Since I totally judge you for acting like Regina George in tight-fitting scrubs."

The guys are about ten seconds away from cowering under the table before Lydia laughs - _laughs -_ loud and filthy, and raises her drink in a toast. "I take that as a compliment."

Stiles doesn't understand girls. At all.

Which is exactly what he's thinking about a half hour later when he finds himself at the bar doing shots with none other than Laura Hale

"You terrify me," he says, smacking his lips together after he spits out the lemon wedge.

He doesn't know when she arrived, but he does remember whooping loudly and shouting "Laur-aaaah!" when he spotted her coming through the door. She was with a group of women who looked like, what could only be described as, a pride of lionesses on the prowl. Or she-wolves. Something beautiful and scary.

"That's just the way I like it," she smirks, wiping her fingers delicately with a napkin.

Her eyes had lit up upon seeing him - possibly due to the fact that he was mid-way through a demonstration of the Safety Dance and shouting ' _S, like s-for-Stiles, see?_ ' when she arrived.

"So my dear baby brother didn't get an invitation to the party?" she asks, summoning the bartender back with a raise of a manicured finger. Stiles scowls.

"Pfft, he...he said he had better things to do than watch me become a 'transplant candidate'. Joke's on him, Scott would _totally_ give me some of his liver."

The best bro in question has taken over the jukebox, having also selected Men Without Hats’ masterpiece - and is trying to get Allison to make the S-shape with her hands while he sings along in baritone.

“ _You can dance, you can dance, everybody look at your pants.._ ”

“Those aren't the words, Scott.”

“You don’t listen to her, bro!” Stiles intercepts, “Those are _totally_ the words!”

Laura smiles, and even in his drunken state, Stiles knows it's somewhere between fond and thoughtful.

“Derek doesn't know what he's missing," she says, leaning forward and pressing a lipstick-tinted kiss to his cheek. Whatever, red is totally his colour.

Stiles flushes, grinning, and then blinks at the flash of her phone's camera.

"Heyyyy, I wasn't ready," he frowns, but Laura's typing something and setting her phone on the bar. It lights up seconds later, and she smiles as she answers it.

"We'll hello there, Der-bear. You're missing one hell of a celebration."

Stiles eyes widen and he shakes his head, shushing her. "No, no, don't tell him I'm drunk, he'll be all ' _you're such an incompetent poop-head, Stilinski_ ', and give me the judgey-brows."

Laura's holding back a laugh behind his pointer-finger as she watches him. "Yep, I didn't realise your interns were gonna be here, what a fortunate coincidence," she says into the phone. "Stiles is a _really_ fun drunk."

He preens. "You think so?"

She's not replying, still smirking as she says, "No, I don't know whose lipstick that is." Before Stiles can retort, she has a hand over his mouth and he scowls at her. "If you'd manned-up and come here, you would know for yourself."

Stiles holds his hands up and grunts helplessly, too inebriated to figure out what the hell is going on.

"Now, Derek, there's no need to swear," she laughs. "We can talk about your complete 'indifference' to this whole thing tomorrow when you buy your favorite big sis’ breakfast. Buh-bye!"

She practically stabs the phone’s screen with her thumbnail in an effort to drop the call, and w _hat?_

"Whah...what jus' happened?" Stiles says, blinking as he licks the taste of lemon from her hand off his lips. All she does is smile back as she waves some friends over.

"Oh, honey, I can't believe you still have no idea."

* * *

 

 

"Come on. Admit it - I'm your favorite."

" _I'm_ my favorite."

"You can't be your own favorite!"

"I can if I'm this good at everything," Dr Hale smirks, taking a bite of an apple Stiles has no idea where he got.

They've just told a ten-year-old girl that she'll be recovered in time for her best friend's birthday party, and she'd beamed and made grabby-hands until they both gave her hugs. Stiles thinks hugs should be a default treatment for everything (well, everything not life-threateningly contagious; he doesn't have a death wish), because they even make Hale do that soft, quiet smile he's only seen a handful of times.

"You weren't _this_ awesome when you were a resident," Stiles says, gesturing to himself. "Your sister told me you still had a stutter."

Hale's eyes darken in a faux-threat. "I'm gonna go ahead and need you to forget you know my sister."

"Not going to happen. She loves me," Stiles says confidently, before frowning. "I think. Sometimes I think she just wants to eat me."

Hale rolls his eyes. "She does not want to _eat_ you."

"Hey, I bet I'm really tasty," Stiles defends, watching Hale move to a chair behind the nurses' station and lounge back. Nurse Boyd comes over with a paper cup of coffee and frowns at him until he straightens up.

"You're in my seat," he grumbles, looking genuinely confused as to why someone would think it's okay to sit there.

"I get to sit where I want, because I save children for a living," Hale replies, but he does look like he wants to move; Boyd's disapproving look could strip paint. "Come back when you're brilliant."

It's odd, but on anyone else, the swagger would be completely off-putting, but on Hale... Nope. Stiles is really not exploring _that_ mess of reactions right now. It’s the high of discharging little Alexa.

"I forgot how attractive arrogant bragging is," Allison comments conversely to Stiles’ inner monologue, twisting her hair away from her face into some kind of magic-bun-thing.

Hale shrugs at her. "It ain't braggin’ if it's true," he says, looking at Stiles, and there's a collective groan. Of course, he’s kind of right - his record since Stiles came to the hospital has been almost flawless, and if Stiles is half the diagnostician he is when he’s an attending, well.

“Now, it’s funny, it _sounded_ like you just quoted Mohammed Ali while sitting in my chair,” Boyd says, and his coffee is starting to hover precariously over the crotch of Hale’s pants. “But you’re not that much of a self-important ass, right?”

“Maybe I should say it again?” he retorts smugly, raising a brow. Stiles hasn't seen him like this.. well, ever. Playful, relaxed, _smiling..._ It’s kind of amazing.

"Interesting," an unfamiliar voice says, and they all turn to take in a really hot girl in a lab coat, stroking her chin like she's made some huge discovery.

She's petite and blonde, and has kind, brown eyes with a mischievous spark in them.

"This is Dr Erica Reyes," Greenberg says, in his permanent dying-whale-voice, and surprisingly is without the usual flop-sweat he seems to wear when trailing after Chief Hale all the time. He's technically a lawyer, but spends most of his time fulfilling the role of lackey. "She's--"

"The new attending psychiatrist," Allison finishes, leaning an elbow on the counter of the nurses' station. She's taking the new addition in with a calculating look, and Stiles is already mentally planning what to spike their drinks with so they can make with the friendship already, because Erica is _hot_ and Stiles wants her around.

Maybe he shouldn't be in charge of prescribing drugs.

On the other hand, Nurse Boyd's brows have risen so high that Stiles imagines hearts coming out of his ears.

"Hi. I'm awful with names," Erica says as she gives a little wave. "So please don't, you know, hold it against me, or think it's because I don't think you're a valid person." She looks at Stiles. "I'm sure you're all lovel-- _Wow_ , holy hickey, Batman!" she blurts, cocking an eyebrow. "I need to ask, do you feel it's important for those you're intimate with to stake a claim on you?"

Stiles flushes and slaps a hand to his neck. "We were all having shots," he squeaks, and Hale finally stands up.

"Excuse me. But I have actual medicine to practice," he says, making his way out of the nurses' station.

"Ah, the alpha male I need to prove my worth to," Erica says sagely, watching him go. Her eyes light up with glee. "Goody."

"Don't waste your time," Stiles grumps balefully. "Even if you do impress him, he'll never tell you."

Not that he's bitter or anything. It's not like he was maybe hoping for a present or a celebratory cupcake on his first day as resident.

"Seeking approval from peers?" Erica diagnoses, stepping closer to him, and the psych crap is getting old pretty quickly. "You need to learn self-acceptance first." Her eyes flick to his ID. "G... G.... Gerard? Gustav?"

"Just call me G-man," he informs, making an incorrect gang sign with one hand. Reyes starts repeating 'G-man' under her breath - a memory technique - as she stares at him, and he internally screams.

_Nobody calls you G-man! The hot girl thinks it's okay to call you G-man!_

He looks around to find only Nurse Boyd left sitting there, giving Stiles a disapproving look.

"This is Nurse Boyd," Stiles informs, because it's starting to get awkward.

"Vern," he corrects, standing up and offering her his hand. "Call me Vern."

"But nobody gets to call you-- Oh-kay..." He trails off at the threatening look Boyd shoots at him.

"Vern....Vern....Vern..." Erica is saying, looking him over, and Boyd does something Stiles has never seen before - he smiles.

It's getting weird.

"This is getting weird," he announces. "Alright, I'm just gonna...." He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, "Yeah..."

He high-tails it out of there before he has to watch Boyd flirt or something.

 

* * *

Stiles is on a high. All of the attendings are off at a dinner honoring Chief Hale for-- something, he wasn’t really listening, which makes the residents the most senior staff in the hospital for the whole night. He’s so pumped, he can practically hear the opening verse of _“Like A Boss”_ echoing in his ears.

It’s only when he rounds the corner and finds Nurse Boyd thrusting a mop inside the elevator to the startled shrieks of Greenberg and three of the guys he recognizes from the administration staff that he realizes he wasn't imagining it.

“Come on this floor again, I _dare_ you!” he shouts, just as the doors ping closed.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asks, stopping beside him. Boyd rolls his eyes.

“Greenberg’s rap crew,” he says with disgust. “Chief Hale lets them practice here at night, so he doesn’t have to suffer through it himself.”

“I’m sensing you’re.... not a fan,” Stiles surmises, following him back to the break room.

Boyd shoots him a look and says, “I find them offensive.”

“Ahh, because they’re misrepresenting your culture?” A frown is the only reply, so he clarifies, “Because of your... um... ethnicity?”

“ _No_ , because they suck.”

“Fair enough.”

Allison and Scott are moments away from defacing a couch in front of the only staff TV on the floor - which is a travesty if that’s ruined forever - and Stiles clears his throat loudly, earning their sheepish grins.

“Dude, who’s in charge tonight?!” he asks, proffering his fist for a celebratory bump, which Scott circumvents with a brotherly shove to the shoulder.

“You _know_ it! Finally, some goddamn recognition around here.”

Allison watches the exchange with a sigh. “You know, maybe the reason you guys feel so patronized is because you still call each other ‘dude’ and ‘bro’,” she says.

“Erica mentioned something about a Peter Pan complex,” Boyd supplies, and Stiles groans.

“Does she ever stop analyzing everyone? It’s unsettling and I don’t approve. Also, she’s... smug.”

“Hale’s not here, Stiles, you can stop pretending to hate her just because he does,” Allison smirks.

“I don’t pretend to...” he sighs. “Alright seriously, what is it with him and beautiful, confident women?” He gestures at Allison. “He doesn’t act like _you_ knocked over his legos all the time.”

She shares a look with Boyd.

“That took some time... believe me,” she says ominously, but before they can question her any further, she’s snapping her fingers at them and they trail after her to find Lydia, already stacked high with charts and looking more like The Little Mermaid than they’ve ever seen her.

“We’re all alone,” she croaks, eyes wide, and Stiles kind of wants to cuddle her or something - because it’s _Lydia_ and she doesn’t do vulnerable.

“It’s all good, Lyds,” he says, but he’s now actually looking at the pile of charts, and Allison has started rattling off everything they have to do for the next few hours, at least, and he thinks he may have swallowed his own tongue. Scott has more surgical consults than he’s seen in the last three months _combined._

It’s going to be a long night.

He powers through the first three hours, somehow. Scott isn’t rolling around on the floor wailing, so that’s a good sign, and Stiles is beginning to relax - the constant weight sitting on his chest feels less like a full-grown man and maybe a skinny eight-year-old now, and nobody’s _died_ yet (although Lydia’s glaring at the ER doctor like he’s made some sort of execution list) so..

“Oh-kay, we can totally do this,” he says, only to turn and find The Janitor leaning on the mop Boyd had been using to fend off Greenberg and the admins.

“My job is a joke to you?” he says threateningly, and Stiles gapes.

“I...uh..”

“Oh, _sure,_ mess with the _janitor’s_ stuff. He doesn’t do anything, He has the job a sixty year-old-woman could do,” he says, chewing furiously.

“I didn’t-- that mop was...”

“I’m watching you, kid. _Watching._ ”

“I’m too busy for this!” he calls after him, but he knows his fate has been sealed.

* * *

 

Stiles' phone has been vibrating non-stop since he pulled off his street to make the drive to work. It only makes sense when he gets out of the jeep and finds 'FOR SEXY BUTT STUFF CALL ME' printed on the back, along with his phone number and a photo taken from the hospital ID he got his first week as in intern. His hair looks terrible. This is terrible.

"How does he even know where I live?!" he squawks in the parking lot to nobody in particular, over-gesturing at the sign. It took days to get all the ads taken off, and his mechanic now loves to see him coming. "Yeah, well, joke's on you, _Janitor_ , I'm completely open to sexy butt stuff!"

Somehow, Lydia manages to look judgmental despite the fact she's getting out of _Jackson's Porsche._ She'd maintained that taking him home The Night Of Too Many Shots was a one-time thing.

His phone is lighting up again as she walks past. "Oh, Lyds, tell me you didn't."

Jackson achieves looking smug even while wearing sunglasses. Douche.

"You don't get to comment, Stiles," she huffs, even though she does look ashamed. The hand Jackson has poised to smack her ass is seized in a death grip, and she turns back to him. "Let's see how bright your career looks with three crushed metacarpals, hmm?"

His eyes widen momentarily before he rolls his shoulders. "I'm late to scrub-in. See ya later, babe." He nods at Stiles. "Stilinski. G'luck with the butt stuff."

Stiles hates his smirk. So much. At least there wasn't a high-five.

"Who the hell even calls for sex at 8.30 on a Wednesday?" she asks after Jackson struts off, falling into step beside Stiles. He's less intimidated by her now; something about seeing someone as flawless as Lydia Martin demand that everyone do body-shots off of her to a John Mayer song kills the mystique.

"Jackson, _again? Really?"_ he says judgmentally, adjusting his backpack as they walk through the front doors.

"He gives amazing head," she flounces, and he visibly balks.

"I'm putting that in the notebook of things I _never need to know ever."_

 _"_ Yeah, well, you shouldn't make open-ended statements like that if you don't want information.” She leans in, conspiratorially. “Seriously, he's like a machine."

"Going in the notebook, I swear!"

"That the same one with the angry puppy on the front?" Dr Hale cuts in, managing to sound disapproving, even though his attention is focused on the chart he's making notes on.

He's got a new lab coat on today, and Stiles is resolutely not paying attention to it because Hale still hasn’t even congratulated or acknowledged, after months, that he's a resident now, and wouldn't appreciate the compliment on how it hugs his shoulders anyway.

"New lab coat?" _Dammit!_

Hale just gives him a look - almost...bashful? - while Lydia sighs and walks off. She still doesn't spend any more time around Hale than she needs to. Maybe Stiles should get them drunk together, too. She and Allison went shopping the other week. It totally works.

He clears his throat. "FYI, it's not an angry puppy. It's a werewolf, and he's guarding my secrets," he glosses loftily. "Wait, you noticed my notebook?"

Hale looks to the ceiling as if praying for strength, but there’s a hint of a smirk in there.

"Hurry up and get changed, Stilinski. Mrs Wright is back and I need you to do a full work-up on her, and make sure Lahey didn't accidentally poison her last night.”

"You leave Isaac alone. It's hard to be an amazing resident like me," Stiles says, already moving towards the elevator.

"He'll get used to it, since there's no way he's completing his residency _before he turns thirty..."_

"He has bad luck, is all," Stiles defends, not that he cares, but it's just fun to watch that vein on Hale's neck pop out, and the bordering-on-cute eye twitch he gets when he's argued with.

"His life is an episode of CSI,” he grunts. “Seriously, though - I need Pearl taken care of. She’s slowly working her way up the transplant list and--"

"Yeah, yeah, she needs to be alive when her new heart comes. I’ll do it,” Stiles waves off. “Pearl adores me, and you're just cranky because your sister starts her job on the hospital board today."

Hale's brows make a single line on his forehead. "How did you-- You don't talk to my sister. Ever."

"Laura and I are totally destined to be BFFs." _Even though she scares me. "_ We should have a sitcom about being awesome."

"Not if every episode ends in your neck looking like a chew-toy."

Stiles' smile is smug. "Aww, so you _did_ notice."

He can't be exactly sure, but he has had several flashbacks from that night, many weeks ago, of Laura's friends licking salt off his neck. Teeth were also involved.

"You looked like a reject from _Twlight_."

"They have venom in _Twilight_ \- if that were the case I'd either be a vampire or dead, no bruises," he corrects, only belatedly realizing that Hale probably didn't want to know. "Um... See you back here in five?"

"If I haven't stabbed myself in the eye with a pencil to forget that you're my responsibility."

* * *

 

" _Tater-tots, you look so good on my pla-ate..._ "

Stiles freezes, sandwich hovering in front of his mouth and he frowns.

"She's singing to her lunch," Lydia says, as if daring him to make a comment about it. "It’s part of a for-shits study we’re doing to see if it aids digestion."

"Well, it doesn't."

Erica raises a brow. "How would you know?"

" _Science?"_

Lydia huffs. "See? He's been spending too much time with Dr. Hale. I told you cynicism is catching."

Erica tuts and shakes her head. Stiles rues the day he introduced them, because they're pretty much ruining his life with judgmental looks and mind-reading.

"I didn't contract _common sense_ from him."

"Hey, just because you've been pissy since you've rotated off his service..."

"I'm not _pissy_.."

Erica is studying him, "You really are. Tell me, do you feel like it's rejection, or is it some kind of pining deal?"

Stiles drops the sandwich. He can't eat when he's being analysed, and being Dr Maschio's bitch this week has had him on-edge. It’s even worse than when he did his surgery rotation and Dr. Deaton separated him and Scott for making rooster combs out of the gloves.

Maschio’s an entitled dick. They don't share the same philosophies in patient care, he doesn't even _consider_ his opinion, and the guy has Stiles doing even more grunt work than an attending normally does. It's just... wrong, okay?

"You two are hell-witches from the netherworld." He could actually hate them if they both weren’t so impossibly beautiful.

"Wow," Erica says, as if he's just made some huge revelation. "You're totally right, Lyds."

Lydia nods, "Mm-hmm. It's like Derek and Meredith, but with more UST."

"That didn't even make a little sense - who's Meredith?" Stiles grouses, completely lost. _Is she the new resident working with Hale?_ Stiles bets she's probably fabulous and doesn't even keep a dream journal. Shit.

"We're talking about you and Dr Hale," Erica says, taking pity on him.

"I know."

"No," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "You _and_ Dr Hale?"

"Yes..." he says, looking between them. "I was here for that."

" _No,_ you..." Lydia bites out, huffing a breath through her pursed lips.

"Wow," Erica pipes in, glancing at Lydia briefly before looking at Stiles again like he's some kind of lab rat in sneakers and a cool hat. "Deliberately obtuse, or completely oblivious? I wanna say....the latter?"

Lydia shakes her head and looks at him with dismay. "Sadly, I think you're right."

"Fascinating," Erica smirks.

Stiles rears back, squinting at them. "Wait... Are you guys implying that I... That me and Dr Hale..."

"Give the boy a cookie," Lydia snarks, stabbing at her salad.

"No... _Hell_ no, it's completely professional between us. He's an amazing doctor, and we both share common ideals when it comes to internal medicine... and..."

"And he has amazing pecs, and he smiles fondly at you every time you do something right, and his eyes are like looking into the crystal waters of a Caribbean beach..." Lydia says dreamily, smirking at her plate. Hell-witch.

"You people are insane."

They are. Sure, aesthetically, he's - possibly - noticed that Dr Hale won the genetic lottery in a way which would make even straight men salivate, and his approval is important to Stiles, but that's an attending-resident thing. Totally.

"They don't let insane people be psychiatrists, G-man," Erica retorts, catching a tot in her mouth, and he hates that her smugness is a turn-on.

Lydia full-on snickers, because Erica totally knows his name now - she's been here for months - but still refuses to be corrected.

"Fine, but that doesn't mean you're right," he grumbles, going back to his lunch.

"So if I asked you to come out with me, tonight, on a date, you'd be up for it?" Erica asks, and Stiles freezes.

"But I thought you and Boyd..."

"Boyd and I are taking a break while he works through his attachment issues to his grandma," she waves off, dismissive. "It'll be fun, and you might even get to second base - I've seen you check out Turner and Hooch."

Stiles frowns before Lydia gestures to Erica's chest with a flourish. "Turner and Hooch are her breasts," she clarifies.

"Which one's the dog?" he says, studying the cleavage in question and genuinely curious - but they just ignore his inquiry. Rude.

"Unless it wouldn't be right, because you're in love with someone else..."

Stiles narrows his eyes at Erica's challenge. "I'll pick you up at eight."

...

He’s totally wearing his getting-laid underwear (positive thinking), his hair looks great, and he’s going on his first actual date since med school. With someone he’s actually attracted to, no less. Life in Stilinski-land could possibly be looking up.

Well, it is until he’s on his way out of the hospital at 7:15 and notices Dr Hale sitting quietly in Mrs Wright’s room, just staring at her.

She’d finally, after being on the waiting list for over a year, received her new heart - it’s part of the reason Stiles was so pissed about being paired with Dr. Maschio - he wouldn't get to be around for such a huge moment in the sweet old lady’s life.

He knocks on the door, and there’s a long pause before it’s even acknowledged that he’s there, but when Hale turns, there are dark shadows under his eyes, and a pained pinch to his expressive brows. His gaze is vacant, and Stiles’ heart has made its way into his throat.

“What’s up? I figured you’d be off by now.”

“Can’t,” he replies stiffly, shaking his head with a stubborn determination Stiles has come to recognize from the moments when the attending is feeling truly helpless.

Stiles takes a look at Pearl’s chart, and does not like what he sees. “Wow. Still no response?”

Hale just stares at the figure in the bed, as if willing her to wake up, and he lets out a frustrated breath before buries his hands in his hair..

“I missed something, I _know_ I did. Two of my other patients received organs from the same donor - same story with them. Deaton can’t figure it out either and--” he finally looks at Stiles. “Hey, you’re..” he clears his throat. “Got plans?”

He looks down at himself. “Uh, yeah, but if you need--”

Hale’s already shaking his head, refusing. “No, it’s fine. Honestly, go on your... your date, or whatever.”

“Seriously, man, it’s not a problem if you need--”

“Lahey’s still around, I think,” he replies, frowning into the middle distance. “I have him running practically every test known to medicine so...”

“Derek,” Stiles says, and he cocks his head in an effort to meet his gaze. “This isn’t on you, whatever it--”

“But what if it _is?_ ” he snaps, silencing the room to the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

Stiles licks his lips, frowning, because Derek doesn’t get to do this to himself, not ever.

“You told me that if I started second-guessing myself, then it gets harder and harder to come back from that.”

He’s expecting a retort. It’s even worse when Derek just nods.

“I practically fist-pumped when I heard about the accident on the interstate,” he confesses quietly, fingers clenching. “Some young woman who was on her way here anyway was brought in brain-dead, and all I could do was think about--” he clenches his jaw. “Stiles, go.”

“Derek--”

“Stiles, if you don’t leave now, I’ll make it so you’re never on my service again.”

..

So the minor freak-out he’d been up until four am having is probably showing in the zombie-like gape on his face, but he can’t even deal with what he looks like right now because _he’s in love with his attending._

Erica made a great date - she was fun, did just enough flirting to tease without coming off too aggressive, and she didn’t make a single comment about Stiles’ drink of choice, even though she kept ordering beers for herself. She didn’t even hold it against him when he spent the first two hours of their time together silently angsting over the state he’d left Dr. Hale in.

Stiles probably owes Erica a lot, because verbalizing feelings? Not his forte.

“Alright, Stilinski, lay it on me,” she’d said, leaning back in her seat like she was so much more wise than he could ever hope to be. He’d explained about the situation with Hale, how bad he felt because he was sitting there with one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen, but couldn’t drag his mind away from the look on Derek’s face and the frustrated set of his jaw.

“And you’re still trying to tell me you don’t have feelings for him?”

“That’s not what this is about,” he’d said, to which she’d just given a look of skepticism. “I just feel like he needs support right now, and a lot of people don’t know how to handle him.”

“And you do?” A smirk.

“Not what I meant.”

“Well what _did_ you mean, then?”

He let out a sigh. “He’s got a way about him, a need for trust to be earned, and somehow, miraculously, I managed to do that. I’m not just taking that lightly - he’s one of the most brilliant medical minds I’ve ever encountered, and I feel like I’m lucky to get to watch him in action...”

“But?”

“But being with him all the time makes me feel...conflicted. Like I don’t just want to look out for him and ask his advice - I want to be a major part of his life, if I was fortunate enough for him to let me,” he confessed. “Plus... I’m not blind, I mean, he’s... _wow._ When he smiles at me, it's like..." He'd let out a defeated breath. "I’m not sure that’s a regular impulse to have with your _boss._ ”

Erica had mulled over his words for a beat, sipping from her bottle, and then nodded.

“Look, Stiles, when you see him in pain like this, and you want to reach out, is it as a colleague, or something else?”

Stiles thought about it. He thought about going back there, pulling up a chair beside Derek, taking his hand, and telling him they’d figure it out, whatever it was, together.

“I don’t know.”

She looked at him, her eyes sad, and said, “I think you do. But I also think you need to sort out these feelings of yours before it infringes on the professional relationship you have.” She leaned an elbow on the table. “Can you be what he needs,” she said, “if you’re too busy fighting with the parts of yourself that want to _be_ with him and _learn_ from him?”

Stiles had barely slept a wink.

It’s not exactly like the revelation had come from anywhere - he’d known that his relationship with Derek probably meant more to him than was appropriate, but to have it actually voiced, for the first time, out in the open, made something frightened and nervous rise up within his chest. If he couldn’t get a handle on this, was it destined to ruin everything they already had?

Could he come to work every day, feeling like he did for Derek, and tamp it down to remain professional?

The same questions had rattled around in his brain, on repeat, even in sleep, and the only distraction comes when he makes his way to where Hale’s usually standing every morning, to find Allison and Scott with worried looks on their faces.

“Jeez, who died?” he quips, and yeah, maybe it’s the worst thing to say in a _hospital_ of all places, but the air is almost soaked with malaise.

Scott presses his lips together. “Pearl Wright.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, feeling like the world is grinding to a deafening halt, but Scott isn’t done.

“Mark Buchanan, Sophie Dodd.”

“Were they all...”

“Dr. Hale’s patients,” Allison says, and her eyes are glassy - Stiles has never seen her like this. “They were pronounced last night. All three of them.”

“There was a virus,” Scott elaborates. “Rare. He couldn’t have possibly known.”

“Is he--”

“No,” she responds, taking a breath. “Nobody’s seen him since about two am. Laura says he got back to his apartment, but he’s not letting anyone in.” She looks at him earnestly. “I don’t think he’s handling this well, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

He’s lost. He’s completely and utterly lost, still on the edge of what he and Erica had discussed, and the need to go to Derek warring with the voice that tells him that if he wants to deal with it in his own way, they should let him. If he were simply a colleague, what would he do?

It’s been four days, and after the second, Allison had taken it upon herself to intervene.

A rotation was set up to show Derek that he had a network of support around him; after Laura finally got him to start opening his door again, everyone from Chief Hale to Nurse Boyd had paid a visit - but Stiles, in his infinite cowardice, couldn’t bring himself to go.

If he goes there, what’s to stop him crossing the line between professionalism and stupidity, blurting out everything he feels in an effort to make Derek see himself through Stiles’ eyes? It’s not what he needs right now; some stupid kid with a crush laying his hero-worship at his door.

Derek is compassionate, intelligent, courageous and strong. He cares about people, genuinely, in a way that reminds Stiles every single day why he got into medicine in the first place. He isn’t sure he can handle seeing Derek feeling any less than worthy of that, and he doesn’t know how to begin to convince him otherwise.

He’s been covering his patients in his absence, so it’s not like he doesn’t have the excuse of a full workload, but the women in his life are seeing through it like a wet paper towel.

Surprisingly, it’s Laura who corners him in the supply closet.

“What are you doing?” she demands, pinning him with a glare. He was right to be terrified of her.

“I--um..”

“It’s been four days, Stiles.”

He deflates, feeling the guilt swell up like a tidal wave, crushing his sternum. “I know, okay, I _know._ ”

“He’s a fucking mess, and nothing’s working, and the only fucking time I see any reaction out of him is when the front door opens and he checks, _every time_ to see if it’s you,” she says, her voice cracking. “Please tell me you have a good reason for abandoning him at a time like this.”

Stiles stiffens. “I’m not abandoning him, alright?” he grits out, because he’s thought of nothing else but Derek since he heard the news. “I’m just not-- I can’t go there and pretend like... I just can’t.”

She’s looking at him like she doesn’t know who he is, and he feels it sting, right down in his gut. “Why can’t you? He _needs_ you right now, more than ever.”

“You say that like I’m not just his fucking colleague!” he snaps. “I’m sorry this happened, and I’m sorry that he’s going through this, but I can’t just click my fingers and fix him.”

“But you’re _more_ to him than just-- are you really that dense?”

He makes to argue, but she cuts him off.

“He thinks he’s let you down, Stiles.”

And that’s all it takes.

  
...

Chief Hale is on his way out when he gets there. Stiles has never been to Derek’s apartment, and part of him hates that these are the circumstances, but there’s a determination in him that doesn’t allow him to dwell on it.

The chief smiles, somewhat knowingly, and nods at him. “Your absence has been noted,” he says, and Stiles grits his teeth.

“I’m here now.”

“Yes, at last.”

Stiles flounders to come up with something to say back, but the chief is pressing the door open and pointing the way with a flourish.

“He’s an asset to my hospital, Stilinski. I’m counting on you to protect that,” he says, and then he’s gone.

All intentions of giving Derek a piece if his mind for being so down on himself float away the moment he lays eyes on him; dressed in soft sleep-pants and a tattered t-shirt, cradling a bottle of Jack to his chest. The circles under his eyes are even worse, and his gaze is bloodshot, erratic. The usually artfully-maintained stubble is patchy in places where it’s grown out, and Derek’s looking at him warily, like whatever Stiles is here to say has the capacity to break him even further.

“Hey,” he croaks, like his voice hasn’t been used in days. Four, to be exact.

Stiles slowly walks over beside him and takes a seat. It’s easier if he’s facing away, because he knows that looking at the man beside him any longer will break his resolve, and there’s too much at risk for that.

There’s some car restoration show playing so low it’s almost mute, and Derek fidgets, patting down his hair and avoiding Stiles’ eyes.

“You haven’t let me down,” Stiles blurts, and _whoa_ why didn’t he get here sooner, since he’s clearly so great at this. Derek stills, looking down at the bottle in his hands, and Stiles can see where his toes are digging into the lush carpet.

“I mean...” he backtracks, sighing. “Did I ever tell you why I wanted to be a doctor?”

There’s no response, but he knows from the slight crease in Derek’s brow that he’s at least listening. He plays the words in his head, trying to choose the best ones, but eventually, letting it all come forth, raw and honest, is what wins out.

“When I was a kid, my mom got sick. Breast cancer - they only caught it at stage three, so..”

Derek’s eyes close, and Stiles is sort of in awe of his ability for silent empathy, even like this.

“I spent a lot of time in hospitals. It feels like it dragged on for months, letting her go. But even as a kid, I had my favorite doctors,” he says, trying for a smile he doesn’t feel. “I’m not talking about the ones who told jokes or gave me candy or whatever. Kids are great judges of character, and back then I was into this whole Batman deal. I was protective.”

He gulps past the flood of memories and just _breathes._

“There was this one guy - I called him Dr Paul, but I’m not even sure of his last name anymore - he was the one I liked. When he told us news, good or bad, it was like he was invested. He really _cared,_ you know?”

Stiles turns to Derek, seeing that he’s now looking straight back at him.

“I went to med school because I wanted to be somebody’s Dr Paul. I wanted people to have someone who _cares_ , almost as much as they do.” He roams his eyes over Derek’s face. “And then I met you.”

Derek’s looking in his eyes now, his gaze dejected and curious all at once; like he doesn’t dare take in anything being said to him, because he doesn’t deserve to believe it.

“You’re a complete paradox of a person,” Stiles says on a sigh. “Your patients are your life, and you act like you could be indifferent, but I know you’re not.” He looks away at his own hands, needing to gather himself instead of blurring the lines he’s already tiptoeing along. “You’re exactly the kind of doctor I want to be - and I respect you _so much_ for that, because they way you look through my eyes? You’re invincible.”

Derek gulps audibly, and Stiles drags his gaze back to him. He looks like the air has been punched out of his chest, eyes searching, and they finally settle on the words coming out of Stiles’ mouth.

“So you... _disappointing_ me, by having the exact traits that made me respect you in the first place? By caring this much? It’s impossible. You’re fucking amazing, Derek. If I’m half the doctor you are in three years, I think I’ll be okay with that.”

Derek’s breath is shallow and short for a moment, and then the room is silent, save for the quiet murmur of the television. For the first time since he began talking, Stiles realizes the position they’re in.

Derek’s eyes are striking and infinite, and they flick to Stiles' mouth, sharing breath, leaning closer and almost asking for permission, like he needs this more than anything Stiles came here to say.

He’s beautiful, even like this, and his expression only adds to the appeal - because he’s open, exposed and tender. He’s earnest and wanting and though the venerable _Dr. Hale_ is commanding and strong and impossibly attractive, his quiet, soft seeking-of-comfort is stunning in its display.

Stiles’ heart is _hammering_ because he never once expected this - and Derek is vulnerable and broken and he hates the part of him that _wants._

It’s not right - it wouldn’t be anyway - but especially not now, and the itch in Stiles' fingers to reach out, to pull closer, to _give_ and to _take_ is the worst betrayal his body has inflicted on him in years. He flinches back, everything inside of him howling in protest, but if he’s ever going to be unfathomably lucky enough to _have_ him, it can’t be like this.

Derek blinks, eyes shutting in contrition - like it’s on him, _his_ fault that Stiles had to break the moment, and that’s not right at all.

So Stiles does reach, finally.

He cards his hands, slowly, through the ink-dark locks flattened on Derek’s head, watching him lean into the contact. It’s heartbreaking, because for all the talking everyone’s done, the speeches and the attempts at baiting him into recovery, all he’d needed was this; a voice who still held belief in him and a touch of reassurance.

Stiles moves closer, until Derek’s head is resting by his clavicle, and rests his chin in his hair.

He lets out a breath into Stiles’ neck, like he’s finally able to do that, and Stiles lets him stay there, lets him breathe, because that’s who Derek needs him to be.

 


	3. Residency - 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out new characters and tags, guys!

 “You saw that. You _totally_ saw that! Come on!”

Erica narrows her eyes, studying his face. “I believe that _you_ saw it.”

Stiles gapes, hand held aloft and pointing to - what is now - thin air.

“It was right there!”

“Of course it was. Tell me, Stiles, do you slip off into your own head often?”

 _Don’t answer that. Do_ not _answer that._

“Define.. often...?”

Erica nods. “Maybe you could stop by my office. I have an office, now.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says, rolling his eyes, but she’s already walking off. “I’m not crazy!”

“Of course not,” she says over her shoulder. “Just... imaginative.”

Matty Daehler on bed three is giggling behind his hands. Stupid eleven-year-olds.

“Laugh it up, buddy,” Stiles says, irritated. “Just remember, it takes _one_ word from me, and all pudding cup privileges are revoked.”

“The pudding here sucks anyway,” Matty retorts, unfazed.

“Well then... no more--” _dammit, what do eleven-year-olds like? Ah-ha!_ “No more Nurse Argent fluffing your pillows four times a day.”

“But I have a broken femur!” the kid wails, “I can’t get out of bed!”

“Should’ve thought of that before you started perving on my best friend’s girl. I’m on to you.”

“So I’m competition,” Matty says thoughtfully, and he’s already smirking and looking over Stiles’ shoulder where Allison is tending to a six-year-old who just had a tonsilectomy.

“In your _dreams._ ”

“Hey, I’m not the one seeing ghosts around the hospital.”

“It wasn’t a ghost!” Stiles exclaims, before taking a deep breath. “It was a dude in a-- You know what? I _know_ you saw him.”

Matty raises a brow, and Stiles _swears_ he wasn’t this much of an asshole when he was eleven. Okay, he was, but he wasn’t so _obvious_ about it.

“I saw you screaming like a _girl_ at the space beside my bed.”

Stiles flails. “You’re a filthy little liar! I will--"

“Stilinski?”

For Stiles, the entire world grinds to an abrupt stop.

“Could you maybe _not_ use intimidation tactics on the pediatric patients?” Derek says, and _holyfuckingshit_ when did he get here?

Stiles turns to look at him, gaping. The dark circles are gone, the stubble has been crafted back to ‘deliberate’, and he looks like he’s been eating actual solid meals for at least a week.

In short: kind of heartwrenchingly-gorgeous.

It’s been a month since... everything. Derek’s sabbatical seemed to stretch on for forever, and Stiles had heard something about going up-state to ‘reflect’ (read: stop drinking all day in a bathrobe and fish, or something), before people started giving him The Look any time he brought the name up in conversation. Stiles had worried, and then spent too much time _wondering,_ because information was annoyingly scant. Derek was exercising a communication black-out to ‘switch off’. Laura had all-out huffed when, after she tried to dig what Stiles had said to Derek out of him, Stiles refused, saying that if Derek hadn’t told her, then it wasn’t his place.

(Or, he didn’t want anyone else telling him he’d made a mistake.)

Since then, she just kept making loaded comments about _unconventional methods of comfort_ and wouldn’t give him a straight answer about anything else. Whatever, it’s not like Stiles was expecting himself and Derek to to be _inseparable_ afterwards or anything - keeping it professional with his superior isexactlywhat he’d wanted. Totally.

“I... uh--”

“Dr Hale?” Matty says, and _that is not the voice he was using ten seconds ago._ “Dr Stiles is scaring me.” The little shit’s eyes are wide and wet and he’s clutching the blanket to his chest defensively. Stiles thinks _laxatives, so many laxatives,_ for a split second before he remembers that he’s over twice the kid’s age and took an oath.

Stupid oath.

“Dr Stiles couldn’t scare pee out of an incontinent kitten--” Derek says impassively, picking up Matty’s chart. God, he seems so _normal._

_Stop staring at him, you idiot._

“--and we talked about the lying. How will Nurse Argent ever learn to trust you if you don’t tell the truth?”

“Dude! Don’t encourage him!”

“Dr Hale was helping me show my sweet Allison how much of an ass that surgeon she likes is,” Matty says proudly, and Derek fucking _fist-bumps_ him, the traitor. The kid then tugs on Derek’s labcoat with a hopeful expression. “Are you gonna help more now that you’re back?”

Derek gives him an enigmatic smile and Stiles bats his shoulder.

“What happened to the Bro Code?”

“Scott isn’t my bro,” Derek replies, wrinkling his nose like the thought smells bad. “And Allison deserves better.”

“You are just... _._ ”

“ _You_ are just wasting time trying to solve imaginary mysteries,” Derek says reprimandingly, holding up Matty’s X-ray. “I thought I sent word for you to keep an eye on Mr Banks? Nobody’s consulted with him yet ahead of his surgery tomorrow.”

Yeah, he had sent word, alright - by leaving a message with Nurse Boyd and _nothing else_. Stiles didn’t over-think that one. At all.

“I was just about to go get Jackson...” Stiles starts, but his brain is fried from ping-ponging between _Derek is back_ and _shit he looks amazing_ and _stop staring at him be cool_. “But there was a-- I mean..”

“Stilinski?” Derek says, halting the babble with a pointed look. “ _Go._ ”

Stiles huffs - slightly put-out - and turns, only to receive looks of confusion when he all-out _squawks_ at the figure he sees, dressed in a white sheet with eye-holes cut out of it, gliding past the doorway.

....

“ _She’s mighty might-eh, Just lettin’ it all hang out!_ ”

Boyd pauses and turns, fixing Scott with a look that, by rights, should have his skin melting off.

“ _She’s a brick....houuuuse!_ ” He stops abruptly upon seeing his audience, straightening up. “Nurse Boyd,” he beams. “‘Sup!”

“Why are you howling that crap around me?”

Scott’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head profusely. “Uh, no, I wasn’t-- it’s not because of how built you--”

“He scrubbed in with Deaton today,” Stiles saves, clapping a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Dude has a serious Lionel Richie obsession.”

Scott nods. “If I have to close one more patient while he blasts _Dancing on the Ceiling_ , I think I’m gonna Hulk out.”

“How very sad for your life I am,” Boyd deadpans, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t have to be!” Scott says, completely choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “Who has two thumbs and is getting his first solo surgery tomorrow?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles barks, as Scott jerks his thumbs at himself needlessly. “Dude, are you serious?”

“As an appendectomy,” Scott says, setting up for a fist-bump.

“This calls for..” Stiles says, getting out of his seat and turning his butt towards his friend, throwing his hands in the air and wiggling. _“_ _The lady's stacked, and that's a fact,_ _ain't holding nothing back.”_

Boyd sighs like his life is too much effort and stands to walk away, just as Scott joins in and they both belt out, “ _She's a brick, hoooouse!_ _”_

“You two need to sit the fuck back down,” he says, and Stiles shakes his head, hip-checking Scott.

“Nah- _uh!_ ” Stiles yells as the nurse walks off. “Junior Twerk champion, bitch!”

“Wasn’t that last week? When you gatecrashed Oncology’s dance contest?” Scott says quietly, pausing.

Stiles keeps going. “Still won,” he pants, shoving his ass into Scotts side. “C’mon!”

“ _She's a brick, houuuuuuse!_ _”_

...

They are organized.

He’s sitting across from something either of nightmares or a very vivid sexual fantasy, and They have information.

“So you showed up at my brother’s apartment at midnight and cuddled him back to wellness,” Laura says blandly, stirring her herbal tea with a calculating look. “Is your life always a Disney Channel mini-series, or should we hold out for the post-jailbait years, reminiscent of Vanessa Hudgen’s leaked nude photos?”

“Aww,” Erica coos, “He’s _blushing._ ”

“Am _not._ ” He is.

“Everyone _knows_ you want each other,” Lydia says, barely interested, chewing on a carrot stick. “Well, apart from Derek, because he thinks you rejected him and spends all his time sending you sad-kitty looks when he thinks nobody can see him.” Trust her to sound vaguely gleeful at Derek’s pain.

“No way is that even remotely true, oh my god,” Stiles says, and wow, _so_ glad he’s not hooked up to an EKG right now.

Laura gives him a look like she can _see_ his pulse. “Would you care if it was or not?”

“No,” he lies

“Well, then, I guess there’s no point in telling you he turned down three dates in the past month with no valid reason.”

“Maybe he’s not ready to date right now, ever think of that?” Stiles hedges, and Erica practically snorts.

“Yeah, or maybe he’s lovesick.”

“That the technical term, Dr Reyes?”

She gives him a wolfish smile. “No, but it fits.”

“Why are you guys telling me this?” he asks them. “It’s not like anything’s gonna change. Or _can_ change. I’m not going there.”

“Yeah, because you’re a wimp,” Lydia says, flicking the page in her magazine. Laura tilts her head at her curiously. “And you have some weird ideals about not mixing work with your personal life.”

“Thank you, person I just walked in on bad-touching Whittemore in the on-call room,” he bites back, and she just shrugs.

“Makes the day go faster.”

* * *

Stiles is fanboying. He’s _totally fanboying._

“Dr Mahealani? Will you sign my scrubs?”

The guy turns his gaze on Stiles and fights a smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

He settles back from his tip-toes where he totally _wasn’t_ bouncing excitedly. “Totally, yeah.”

The man is a legend. A child prodigy who - despite being the same age as Dr Hale - has managed to become both a surgeon and a medical attending. Two specialties. He’s like a superhero. Of _healing._

Stiles has questions - so many questions - and Dr Mahealani is only here for a few weeks, so he’d better get the really important ones out of the way first.

“So, do you think I’m a good doctor?” he says, making his eyes imploring.

“I... don’t know, Dr, uh--”

“Stilinski. Stiles. You can call me Stiles.”

“Well, Dr Stilinski, I met you three hours ago, and you’ve spent most of that time asking me weird questions.”

“I’m inquisitive, “ Stiles announces, “do you think _that’s_ the mark of a good doctor?”

“I guess..”

“ _Awesome._ ”

Dr Mahealani watches him while he wrestles his werewolf journal on to his knee to _totally_ mark this moment down in history.

_Tuesday, 13:34 - THE Dr Mahealani said he thinks you’re a good doctor! OMG!_

He hears a sigh, and wow, more advice? This day couldn’t get any better.

“Uh, okay. Look,” he starts. “I just met you, but I’ll tell you one thing I learned early into my residency: when you stop constantly looking for approval from your peers or your superiors, it clears the way for you to make the hard decisions - the ones that are right for you _and_ your patients.”

Stiles just looks at him, because, well, it’s kind of _really_ close to the bone.

“If you do that, and you get it right - most of the time, anyway - their approval will just be a by-product, and by then it won’t matter. Do you get me?”

Stiles nods, and clicks his pen shut. “Yeah. I get you.”

...

“When are you going to stop treating me like I’m incompetent?”

“When you stop acting like the world owes you something because you happen to be a pretty girl with a brain.”

“What does that even have to do with anything? It doesn’t make any sense..”

“Are you sure? I’ll bet if you think about it, _real_ hard, you’ll be able to figure it out,” Derek seethes, crossing his ridiculous arms in front of him like he’s laid down some profound knowledge.

“Oh, yeah? Because my _brain_ is so under-used from all the hair-flips and pouting, right?”

He begins a slow clap. “And ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.”

It’s really unfair that when he gets that sly look on his face, it makes Stiles want to rub himself all over him. He bets that stubble is softer than it looks.

“Hmm, it’s almost as if you don’t  _realize_  that you play up the tortured anti-hero shtick so people won’t get in your way. That’s interesting.”

Stiles steps in, because Lydia’s voice has gone all _calm_ and _dangerous_ and Derek’s eyes are much too attractive to be scratched out.

“Uh, guys?”

“There’s only one person _playing_ up anything around here, and it isn’t me,” Derek retorts, and raises an eyebrow. “Think nobody notices that you act like a bimbo, so that they don’t expect more of you?”

“Aww, I’m flattered that you spend so much time preoccupied with how I do my job. That’s precious.”

“ _Guys._ ”

“It’s my business when you’re making the staff here look like idiots.”

“Says the guy who just tried to throw out a patient in _actual chronic pain_ because of some macho grudge against him.”

“It’s _not_ a grudge. He’s taking you for a ride because he thinks you’re too stupid to see through him!” Derek barks, holding a hand up towards the exam rooms and boring his eyes into her. He’s leaning over Lydia angrily, but she’s just glaring up at him with an eerily cold expression. “Is he right?”

“ _Guys!”_

“ _What?!”_ they both turn in unison, and Stiles is hyper-aware of Erica’s comments about him being attracted to stubborn, beautiful people. Fuck his life.

“Uh, you’re causing a scene.”

“ _She’s_ causing a scene,” Derek says petulantly, raising his chin, and Lydia rolls her eyes.

“And suddenly, I really want to listen to what you have to say!” Lydia snarks, shooting a sugar-sweet smile at Derek.

“What’s going on?”

“Dr _Control Freak_ here is throwing a fit because I want to admit a former patient that he doesn’t like.”

“He is _a con artist,_ ”Derek grinds out, like it’s the fiftieth time he’s said it today. “A drug-addict _con artist_ and he saw you coming as soon as he walked in the door.”

“You haven’t treated him in _six years._ He has a family now!”

“Wait, wait, wait... there’s a former addict looking for pain meds, and _you’re_ giving him the benefit of the doubt?” Stiles says, because he feels like he’s looking at a new Lydia.

She shrugs. “Maybe we shouldn’t make assumptions based on past experiences.”

Stiles has a strange feeling that these are his own words being repeated back to him, from when they were interns dealing with the big, bad world, and Lydia had her defenses up so high that she jumped to the worst conclusion instead of the best. He’s oddly proud of her.

Of course, it could also be a case of do-the-opposite-of-what-Hale-says, just _because._

“Maybe we shouldn’t be _idiots_ and take good advice when it’s given,” Derek mutters, and it’s clear he’s not budging.

“What do you think, Stiles?” Lydia says, turning to him. Derek does the same, looking genuinely curious, and he’s left gaping between them like a fish, because Stiles has no idea what to say. He could side with Lydia, because she’s his friend and it’s pretty freaking awesome that she’s on this self-growth kick and trying to see the good in people.

Or he could side with Derek, because it’s _Derek_ and he’s got all this knowledge and experience and Stiles kind of _really_ likes the way he looks at him when they’re in agreement on something, and it feels like it’s been a while. He’s a little bit pathetic that way.

Things with the attending have been... _different_... in the months since he got back off sabbatical.

Not bad, per se. He shouldn’t even complain, really; Stiles wanted to hang on to the sense of respect and of professional camaraderie they’d cultivated with each other. Derek seems to be making sure he gets just that; he’s always been included in decision-making and consulted on approaches to patient care, but now, as a second-year resident, Stiles is starting to feel more like they’re _partners_ rather than that Derek’s constantly guiding him subtly through the minefield as his teacher. Like Derek’s getting ready to step back and see what kind of doctor Stiles is shaping up to be.

It’s great - fantastic, even, for his confidence - but he can’t help but feel like it cost him something. Something like the tentative intimacy they’d been building up before, and he knows that he’s a shitty excuse for a professional for missing it.

No matter how much _that moment_ is replayed in his head, he can’t help but feel a tiny barb of regret, every single time. Especially if viewed from a different angle, and given an alternate ending - where he’d said _fuck it_ and kissed him. If he had, where would they be now? If he’d pulled Derek to him like he’d wanted to and let him get the comfort his broken _friend_ thought he needed; allowed them to lose themselves in each other and just be two people who were close and were going through something. How badly would that really have changed things?

He knows he did the right thing, okay? Despite what Laura and Erica and Lydia said, he _knows_ it. But he can’t help but wonder.

Because sometimes, when Derek looks at him just after something amazing has happened - as they tend to do, in hospitals - it’s almost like he forgets the boundaries. Just for a second.

Then the shutters come down, and Derek’s patting him on the back and Stiles can feel something heavy below his diaphragm reminding him that this is the way it has to be.

It’s the worst kind of regret - something you could have had, but don’t, being shown to you in glimpses, and it feels a little like something of Stiles is chipped away every time Derek nods proudly and says _“Nice work, Stilinski._ ”

“I think...” he begins, and Derek raises a brow. “I think it’s your patient, Lyds.”

There’s a satisfied smile dawning on her face, but a look of caged disappointment on Derek’s, and it’s not fair that, despite what Dr Mahealani had said, a single expression shot his way can evoke so much.

“But Dr. Hale has a point, and maybe you could listen to his opinion...”

_God, he’s so weak._

“Well, shocking that you think so,” Lydia says, icy and final, and she snags the chart from the cart they’re standing beside. “But if Dr. Hale had shown me the same respect he shows you on a daily basis, he might have earned mine.”

She breezes past the two of them, leaving Stiles and Derek standing facing each other, the attending’s face nonplussed.

“Maybe next time I should just tell her what she wants to hear,” Stiles muses, watching her go.

Derek gives him a proud smirk. “Maybe, but you tend to end up at the smart decision, most of the time,” he says, shrugging, and turns to leave. Stiles watches him go, and thinks, _not all of the time._

...

 

“Oh my _god,_ Jackson, _no._ ”

“Don’t leave me hangin, c’mon!”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“It just _is._ Don’t be a dick.”

“Wow, I really feel the need to do what you say, all of a sudden.”

Jackson sighs and turns in a half-circle, hand still aloft. He wouldn’t... _no._

“Chief Hale?”

He would.

“Pre-surgery Five?”

_Oh my god._

“You told me it was a Broken Air Conditioning Five!” Stiles calls after him. “I distinctly heard you mention nipples.”

“Shut _up_ , Stilinski,” Jackson hisses back over his shoulder, and Peter Hale looks from Jackson’s upheld hand back to his face.

“Isn’t your arm getting tired?” he says as he signs off on .. _something._

“Uh, yeah... which is why you’d really be helping me out here if you..” he jerks his head towards his hand, and Peter’s smirk is like if Scar from The Lion King just got laid.

“So, instead of helping out with surgery prep, or - I don’t know - finding a suitably interesting case study for my perusal, you’re here looking for high fives?” the chief says, and he leans back, studying Whittemore with interest.

“I... uh. I _did_ have a case study picked for possible publication, but I..”

“And you can’t do anything until someone has slapped your palm with theirs, from some jock-ish ritual that is of no actual importance in the scheme of things?”

“I _guess..._ ”

“And you just approached your _Chief of Medicine,_ hoping he’d partake?”

“Maybe.. I should just. yeah, I’m gonna--” Jackson gestures vaguely off into another direction, and scuttles off with hardly a backward glance, as Stiles finally breaks down laughing.

When he straightens up, Chief Hale is looking at him and.. _uh, what?..._ he’s holding his hand up. Stiles startles for a second, before giving his _boss of bosses_ a high five, to the sound of Jackson’s muffled ‘ _are you kidding me?!’_ off in the distance.

The chief makes a fist around Stiles’ hand before they can part, and he fixes his stupidly-pants-shitting stare on him.

“You have until the end of the month to submit a case, Dr Stilinski, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten,” he says, and Stiles licks his lips which have suddenly gone devoid of any moisture.

“I know, sir, yeah-- I was thinking that...”

“And I do hope my dear nephew’s views on my residents’ incentives schemes haven’t soured your interest in the competition.”

_Busted._

Derek’s words were somewhere in the region of likening the whole thing to a pony show, and had made it clear that Stiles partaking in the chance to fly to Vegas for a medical conference was akin to washing his uncle's car for time off.

“Um, no?”

“Good,” Hale smiles, like they both know the truth. “I’ll look forward to your submission.”

* * *

 

“It’s okay, Scott, just _focus on me._ ” Stiles turns from where he’s gripping Scott’s shoulders tight enough to bruise and shouts, “Can we get some O2 over here?! He’s turning blue!”

Scott’s eyes widen and he bats at Stiles' arm, shaking his head through the heavy wheezes wracking his body.

“It’s alright, buddy, I got you,” he soothes, taking the mask from Lahey and fixing it around Scott’s head. It’s been years since he had and attack like this - in fact, Stiles is willing to speculate that it isn’t his childhood asthma reappearing at all.

Sure enough, after just a few heavy breaths, Scott’s eyes are drooping with the extra oxygen, and the hand Stiles has now gripped around his wrist is telling him his pulse is returning to normal.

“Easy, man, you’re okay,” Stiles says, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Shit, you scared me. What’s got you so worked up?”

Scott gives him a look to rival a frightened chihuahua and pulls the mask out far enough to speak.

“Allison...” he gulps, “Allison’s _dad_ is coming to town. In three days.” The news is intoned with the same sense of doom as when he told Stiles that Firefly got cancelled. Serious shit.

“And that’s reason enough to send you into a panic attack?” Stiles says, wrinkling his nose. Scott replaces the mask and nods.

“Fuck yeah, it is,” Lahey cuts in, and Stiles had almost forgotten he was still standing there. “Chris Argent is one scary guy.” They both just look at him, confused. “What? I know stuff. Argent is a psycho.”

“Well, you’re afraid of everything,” Stiles sniffs, “So that’s hardly a worry.”

Scott gives him a look of horror. “No, Isaac’s right, and he _hates_ me!” It’s muffled through the oxygen mask, and Stiles scoffs.

“No way, dude, nobody could hate you. He hasn’t even met you yet.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, pulling off the mask to rest at his chin. “But he already hates me, and it’s awful because--” he looks around the hall skittishly, “I want to ask Allison to marry me.”

“Dude! That’s _awesome!_ ”

“Not if he doesn’t give me permission, it isn’t,” Scott hisses. “What if he says no? What if he convinces her to break up with me? I’m _nothing_ without her, Stiles, I--“

“You’re a _surgeon,_ and you’re a stand-up dude. Generous, loyal, and nauseatingly in love with his daughter, and she loves you right back. What’s not to like?”

“My oversexed dick being anywhere near his little girl!”

“Uh, what?” Lahey asks, throwing Stiles a look, but he’s just as lost as Isaac is.

Scott looks like he’s debating revealing a state secret, and Stiles takes pause to consider that there’s something his _best friend_ hasn’t told him - which doesn’t bode well, because Scott only keeps secrets to protect people - or when they’re _really_ fucking embarrassing.

After scrunching his eyes shut for a beat, Scott sighs.

“She Skypes with her parents every week... and... well, it was about two weeks ago, and I didn’t realize she was on a call to him... “

Stiles doesn’t like where this is going already, but he’s wearing his Supportive Bro face, because Scott looks like he needs a hug. Also possibly a pamphlet on _Dealing With Trauma._

“And I _may_ have come out of her bathroom... uh...buck-ass naked while her Dad was watching the webcam?”

Stiles groans, “Oh god....” while Lahey doesn’t even try not to laugh. _Dick._

“I didn’t _know_ okay? Allison went to get a glass of water and he was just _there_ , on the screen, watching me... with his _eyes_...”

“And you didn’t think to do damage control?” Stiles asks, because _really?_

“Those eyes, man... I still dream about them, watching me when I’m--”

“ _Scott!”_

“I froze!” Scott exclaims, breaking his PTSD-fuelled trip down memory lane. “It was awful, dude, I just stood there, until he turned away and the first thing I grabbed to cover my junk was the little stuffed elephant he gave her when she was a baby.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Stiles says.

“Yeah,” Lahey sighs, smugly resigned. “That guy’s gonna cut your balls off. And laugh while he does it.”

“Don’t even-- Guys, he’s like... an arms dealer or something,” Scott continues. “I’m talking... guns. _So many guns_. Allison got a handgun for her twenty-first birthday and she still carries a snub-nosed pistol in her purse when we go out drinking.”

“You need to remind me to never, ever piss your future wife off,” Stiles decides, and Lahey nods sagely.

“Maybe we could have security pat him down before you ask him for her hand,” he says, throwing a self-satisfied look at Stiles. He glares back.

“I’m screwed, aren’t I?” Scott wails, replacing the mask. He flops back on the gurney when they both just nod.

* * *

“Ah-ha!” Stiles yells, jumping out from the storage closet he’s spent the last fifteen minutes hiding in. “Rollerskates! I knew it!”

The Janitor freezes, looking into the closet, and then turns his glare on him. “Did you knock over the squeegees? Those were alphabetized.”

“What? How can you alphabetize-- No, you know what? No deflecting! I know it’s you!”

“I’m coach of the hospital’s underground roller derby league,” he replies loftily, stiffening. “We meet on Wednesdays behind the medical waste dumpster out back. You can’t join!”

“That’s not even remotely true,” Stiles says, bolstering his confidence - also because he would completely _rule_ at roller derby. “I’ve got you now, you sadistic bastard. You’re the Peds ghost!”

The Janitor narrows his eyes. “My brother died in Peds. He was a janitor too, and got electrocuted replacing a light-bulb. You saying I’ve been impersonating my dead brother?”

“I-- _no!_ Come on, man, admit it. I don’t know how you got everyone else in on it, but it’s you, I know it is! The skates!”

“ _Roller derby!”_

“Name three staff members who are on your team,” Stiles demands.

“There’s.. uh...” he begins, holding up a finger. “ Red-Head Doctor, Know-it-All Blondie... The nurse who broke my arm...”

“Those are their given-names, yes,” Stiles drawls. “Dude, I _have_ you, give it up.”

The Janitor just stares, and starts kicking off his shoes menacingly. While Stiles watches, he slips on the rollerskates, not breaking eye contact, and elegantly scoots away.

* * *

 

“You can’t just change your mind!” Stiles hisses, because he’s pretty sure Derek’s around, and he’s not ready for him to find out that he wants to submit Harris’ broken penis to Chief Hale.

Well, not submit the penis. Submit the case study. Mr Harris gets to keep his penis. Oh god, stop thinking about Mr Harris’ penis.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought I lived in a world where snot-nosed baby doctors don’t get to tell me what to do.”

He is such a dick. Stiles knows the type - unfulfilled assholes who take any chance to exercise what little authority they have.

“But you _promised_ ,” Stiles laments, because he’s practically got the thing half-written and he just swung by to grab a copy of the man’s chart to verify his own notes.

Harris gives him some mocking facsimile of a sympathetic smile. “ _Aww_ , I’d apologize, but, I don’t care.”

“There’s a special place reserved in hell for people who break promises, you know.”

“I’m sure my _broken genitals_ give me a pass,” he grits out sarcastically, like it’s Stiles' fault he decided to try out a sex-swing at his age. _Shudder._ “Now please get the hell out of my room before I insist you examine me again.”

Stiles cringes because _deformed penis._ “That’d hurt you more than it would me,” he says, all bravado.

“Not so sure about that,” Harris says, and goddammit, he’s right.

Just in time, Derek walks in holding the coffee Stiles had left outside with his name on, as a distraction.

“What is this?” he demands, holding the cup out like it contains acid.

“It’s coffee. For you,” Stiles replies breezily, pushing Harris’ chart out of sight with freaking James Bond skill.

“Where did it come from?”

Stiles frowns, because, _Jesus_ , it’s not a murder weapon. “I got it for you. To, y’know, be nice?”

“You never get me coffee,” Derek says, still glaring. “I asked you to pick me up one once, because you were getting one, and you told me you weren't a ‘damn waitress’ and then locked yourself in a supply closet when you stopped being brave.”

Stiles gapes. “I..may... have done that, yes. But that’s when I was an intern. We’re friends now. Friends buy friends coffee.”

“Can you two do the awkward flirting in the hallway?” Harris pipes up, and yeah. Stiles still can’t stand the guy.

“Quiet, Mr Harris,” Stiles snaps, only to wince back when he catches the look on his patient’s face. Derek still looks like something bad just crawled out of his cup and tried to kiss him.

“Did Laura put you up to this?” he says.

“Jesus, _no_.. It’s coffee. Give it here if you don’t want it.”

Derek hugs the cup closer defensively. “No, that’s okay. I...thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says, only feeling half guilty about lying to his face.

Derek takes a sip. “I do get enough vitamins on my own, you know,” he volunteers as they turn to walk out.

“That’s--” Stiles has _no_ idea what to do with that. “I’m happy for you?”

“So if Laura said something...” He trails off as Stiles just looks at him with a wrinkled nose. “She likes to spike my food with---” He clears his throat. “Okay, definitely not Laura, never mind.”

“Have I told you that your sister is way too involved in your life?” Stiles says, just as the pink starts fading out of Derek’s stupidly chiseled cheekbones.

“I’m aware.”

“I think she wants to adopt me. Make me part of the family.”

“Did she tell you that?” Derek says, eyes wide.

“Um, no, dude - it was a joke, relax,” Stiles soothes. “Why are you being so weird?”

“I’m not,” Derek retorts, staring ahead with a steely expression. “Mrs Wilbourn’s labs should be back now. Go get them.”

Stiles just watches him walk off and sighs.

* * *

“And this is OR3, where I performed my first solo surgery two months ago.”

“Did you have your pants on for that?”

“Um, yes Mr. Argent.”

“Makes a change.”

Stiles cringes behind the door, because the guy is _not_ letting the naked thing go. It’s unfair, because Scotty holds his own naked. If Stiles pretends it’s not _Scott_ he can totally objectively appreciate his best bro’s glutes.

For about a split second, and then he’s pretty sure he’ll feel dirty for the rest of the week.

Scott clears his throat. “I just want you to know, that Allison and I have been seeing each other for almost three years now, and we didn’t, like, jump into the sex right away.”

Stiles holds in a snort - he’s trying to be stealthy - because Scott totally put out on the first date and all it takes is a few shots for him to get loose and slutty.

“I’m happy you felt the need to tell me that,” Argent says, sounding like it’s the last thing he wanted to hear. Ever.

“Your daughter is a lady, and I respect her so much, and-- and she’s kind and caring, and a fantastic nurse and most of the time I feel like she’s teaching me things I couldn’t have learned in med school.”

“You know she’s a licensed gun owner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do _you_ have any guns, Scott?”

“Um, no, sir. My mom is a nurse and would always come home with horror stories about hunting accidents and I kind of... didn’t really... they’re not for me.”

“Your mother is a nurse,” Argent says, and _uh-oh_.

Stiles can practically hear Scott lighting up, because he’s a complete mama’s boy and Mrs McCall is a queen.

“Yes, sir. She’s the reason I wanted to go to med school in the first place.”

“And let me guess, she’s a strong, determined brunette who takes anyone who needs it under their wing, regardless of their situation. ”

Finally, Scott has caught on. “Um, I guess.. Look, sir, I’m not looking for someone to mother me. Allison and I are equals, and any similarities she has to my... it’s coincidental, okay?”

Argent sighs. “Why am I here, McCall?”

There’s a shuffling of feet at the other side of the door and Stiles strains to hear Scott’s muttering.

“You what?” Argent asks. So it’s not just Stiles then.

“I was, uh,” Scott says, clearing his throat. “I wanted to ask your permission to marry your daughter.”

There’s an elongated silence, and Stiles mentally checks that yes, they’re in the scrub room and all the sharp instruments are on the other side of the glass, so Scott isn’t in any immediate danger.

Out of nowhere, a sharp, loud, obnoxious bark of laughter echoes out, and then Argent is _gone,_ heaving in breaths and struggling to speak through boyish giggles.

“You... you want to ask _me.._ ” he pants, and Scott isn’t saying anything, so it’s safe to assume there’s a confused puppy pout on his face. “Ask _me_ if you can marry Alli-- Oh, wow.”

“You could just say ‘no’,” Scott says, and Stiles can hear his own heart sinking.

Argent is still laughing, and Stiles calculates how long he might have to wait before it looks like he casually walked in to offer him a piece of his mind.

“You think I have any say in how my daughter runs her life?” he asks incredulously. “That she’s listened to anything since she turned thirteen? Oh, kid, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I do,” Scott retorts, and wow, he sounds pretty determined. “I know that she teaches self-defense classes down at the women’s shelter because her father taught her that women aren’t victims, just survivors.”

Argent has gone totally silent, and Stiles hates the door because he can’t _see_.

“I know that she lectures anyone who comes in with an accidental bullet wound about proper gun safety, because you drilled it into her head since she was old enough to speak,” he continues. “I know that she talks to you every week because she likes to know that you’re proud of her, and that you’re still the most important man in her life. I just want to ask her if there’s room for me, too.”

This time, Argent doesn’t laugh, and Stiles crosses his fingers, willing him to listen.

“Maybe,” he says finally, “You know her better than even I do, anymore.” He sighs, like only the father of a daughter like Allison could. “You don’t need my permission, McCall - but you do need to ask her. Just remember, she knows her way around a glock and she’s a good enough nurse to make it hurt without killing you.”

“I know that, sir, yes.”

“If she accepts your proposal, and she doesn’t mind putting up with that idiot who follows you around and is currently listening in on the other side of the door, well, that’s good enough for me.”

Stiles bursts into the room and whoops, enveloping Scott in a hug that pulls him off his feet. They are having drinks tonight. So many drinks.

Argent rolls his eyes. “She still has to say _yes._ ”

...

 

She does.

* * *

 

“Look, I know how you feel about this, but it’s _my_ decision, okay? I’m not going to feel bad for wanting to further my career.”

“And you think _this_ is the way to do it,” Derek says, sounding oddly uninterested. Disdainfully accepting.

“Just because _you_ can’t accept help when you need it, doesn’t mean there’s weakness in it,” Stiles replies, and he’s resolutely _not_ looking at Derek, because he can already see the look of disappointment in his expression.

“I can accept help,” Derek says, and Stiles gives in and looks, because his voice has gone quiet and meaningful. “I let someone help me when I was at my lowest, because I couldn’t do anything else. I had no other options.”

“And I do?”

“I think you can get to where you need to be without playing my uncle’s stupid games,” he says contemptuously, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “I think you underestimate yourself all the time, and you feel like you need a boost to make it up the ladder, but you don’t.”

“It’s not a _boost_ , Derek. It’s using the tools at my disposal. It’s being _smart._ ” He trains his gaze over Derek’s shoulder. “Something you used to tell me I was, sometimes.”

“So that’s what this is about?” Derek says, becoming animated. “I don’t give you enough _praise?_ ”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not at all,” he replies, holding down a bitter smirk. “Look, you’ve taught me so much, and I feel like now we’re on a more even footing - but every time I make a decision, I _still_ take a moment and wonder what you’d do; how you’d react; if you’d be disappointed in me.”

Derek frowns, and, how come something can make so much sense in his head, but not out loud?

“I talked to Dr Mahealani. I wanted some advice.”

A flash of - what looks like - possessive hurt appears across Derek’s expression, before he schools it into indifference.

“So you have an issue with coming to me with concerns now? I thought you _wanted_ us to just be...” he bites off the sentence with a clench to his jaw.

After a long moment, he looks to Stiles again.

“Is there a problem?”

“ _No,_ will you-- just listen to me?”

Derek begrudgingly holds up his hands.

“He told me that one thing I need to learn is to trust my own judgement - you told me something similar, once.”

Derek purses his lips, and looks towards the floor.

“I spend too much time second-guessing everything and seeking approval from everyone else. If I can stop doing that, I’ll be a better doctor.”

“Yet, you’re still submitting Mrs Wilbourne’s case study for publication.”

“Because nobody’s approval matters to me more than yours, and _that’s_ the problem. See, I want to be the kind of doctor you are... I just don’t want to get in my own way because that’s the way you happen to do things, and I’m afraid if I’m not the same you’ll disapprove.” Stiles licks his lips. “I can be like you - but I can be successful, too. I’ve realised that it isn’t a choice between both scenarios.”

Derek’s brow furrows, and Stiles knows that whatever’s coming isn’t going to be friendly.

“Yeah, well, Stilinski,” he says, “When you’re all trussed up for the corporate dinners you’ll be having, and can’t remember the name of the last patient you treated - call me up, and I’ll repeat those words back to you.”

He turns and slams the double doors open, coat billowing out behind him like some superhero, and Stiles wonders if he’ll ever stop seeing Derek as this impossible savior that he needs to get out from under his skin.

Laura’s beside him before he even notices, and she lays a hand to squeeze his shoulder.

“Derek and I are a legacy,” she says after a moment, watching the space where her brother disappeared. “Our grandfather founded this hospital, and there’s no shortage of people who want to be associated with the Hale name to get ahead.” She turns to Stiles. “Derek always hated it; using politics and status to do good. He’s just afraid that you’re falling into that trap.”

Stiles shakes his head, drawing in a breath.

“I’m not going to feel ashamed for trying to get somewhere,” he frowns. “My dad was a small town cop. My mom taught kindergarten. We were hardly spending summers on a private yacht, and everything I’ve achieved, I’ve worked for. Just because he thinks I’m taking the easy route, doesn’t mean I am, and he doesn’t get to judge me for it just because he’s met some shitty people.”

“Yet, even as you say that, I know you still care what he thinks,” Laura says, and for once she’s casting a sympathetic look at where Stiles hand is clenched into a shaking fist, and sees the masked hurt in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “That’s exactly the problem.”


	4. Residency - 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles deals with breaking out from under Derek's tutelage, Scott gets suited up, Jackson almost gets his hands cut off, Lydia gets a new job title (and a girlfriend) and Allison Did Something Bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, OKAY? It's been two years. Most of you reading this probably gave up hope (or left the fandom?!), but thanks to all the messages(like, at least one a week), and some gentle prodding by Madison (tacoposey), I kicked my own ass and got back to this. The final chapter is also partially written, and there will be a preview on my blog following this.
> 
> For those of you who read this literally years ago and can't be bothered to do it again, I've recapped the previous chapters [here.](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com/private/115532332929/tumblr_nmba5b3KUc1s30jbh)

“Come _on!_ Move like the Early Bird menu finishes in a half hour!”

“Bertha! Winners get control of the TV remote for a whole week!”

“Pick it up, Howard, you arthritic stone crab! You’ve got the speed of a ninety-eight-year-old! You’ve got a decade before that!”

Lydia pauses from where she’d been glaring her bet into submission and scrunches her nose. “Stone crab?”

Stiles gestures. “He mostly moves sideways, see?”

Howard nicks a doorway and has to be steered back out into the race by a helpful orderly with a spray bottle. Hospital care at its finest.

“That’s it Howie-dude! Eyes on the prize!”

“What _is_ the prize?” Isaac asks, which is good, because he isn’t going to win.

“For us, it’s last place buys an entire night’s drinks and is designated driver after work. If _I_ lose, Lydia also gets her pick of all my cases for a month.” He nods towards the zombie run. “ _They_ were told there’s a Murder She Wrote marathon starting in the rec room.”

“You people shouldn’t have medical licenses.”

“You’re just pissed that Howard was taken, Boyd,” Stiles retorts, and the nurse raises a brow at him.

“Arthur doesn’t need performance-enhancing drugs.”

“Wait, what?” Lydia cuts in, scandalised. She has her hair pulled back, plotting victory and possibly murder.

“So he’s on steroids for his shingles, it’s not like it gives him an edge. He’s a veteran. Dude’s built.”

“He’s almost ninety!” she retorts.

“He’s almost winning!” Stiles crows, watching the last slipper-clad shuffle toward the finish line. “Yes! I can taste the hangover!”

Everything goes completely silent then, and Stiles is about to start rubbing it in that he is the champion, the winner of winners, _El Jefe_ , soon to be drunker than a frat boy on free vodka Red-Bulls, when--

“Uh..”

It’s Greenberg. Of _course_ it’s Greenberg, because, judging by the supervillain-gare of The Janitor leaning on the broom behind him, _someone_ tattled. And now Greenberg is scratching his dumb over-hairsprayed flat-top and is going to namedrop the chief and ruin Stiles’ victory lap surfing on a gurney.

“I need to tell you that for legal reasons, competitively racing the elderly is _not_ permitted in the hospital, following the tragic pile-up of 2006,” he says, and somewhere a family of orcas are trying to reply in the same whiny language.

“Oh my god, _one_ guy loses a hearing-aid and ruins it for future generations,” Stiles calls out, rolling his eyes.

Greenberg doesn’t look up from the floor because he has the assertiveness of a balding squirrel. “The hospital has been very clear about this, and if it continues, I will be forced to notify Chief Hale and--”

A collective groan drowns him out, and Lydia delicately sweeps a lock of hair back from her face. “We’re pretty sure Chief Hale is running an escort service out of his office on the weekends,” she says, sighing. “He doesn’t get to make rules here.”

Greenberg looks over his shoulder at The Janitor, who stares back unblinking for more than should be humanly possible to retain appropriate retinal moisture.

“Then I’ll be forced to tell _Dr._ Hale,” he amends, and everyone sighs.

“Come on, Bertha, back to your room,” Nurse Boyd says, resigned, to the sweet old lady who would have come at least second-to-last..

“Is that you, Oprah?” she asks as he leads her away.

“...Yes.”

Stiles folds his arms as everyone but himself and The Janitor scatter. He narrows his eyes at him. “You owe me like forty drinks, fun-suck.”

The Janitor glares back, says “Race hamsters like a normal human being,” and resumes sweeping the pristine hallway.

* * *

"Why did I let you talk me into this? She's gonna freak!"

"She is _not_ going to-- okay, maybe it'll take a little selling on our end, but dude..." Stiles fixes his best bro with a look.

Scott sighs. "I know. They're _awesome_. How have we never owned these before now?" He stretches out into an exaggerated pose and gestures to himself.

"Because we live very deprived lives? I mean, I may never take this off!"

"I know, right? I feel like finally finding out if I can make that jump between our building and the next one on a dirtbike. Then just sitting around and drinking beer in it."

Stiles thinks seriously for a moment, pursing his lips. "Okay negative on the amateur stunts - your hands are worth, like, millions, but I've got a six pack chilling in the fridge?"

"Dude. Yes," Scott nods enthusiastically, just as the familiar sound of a key turning in the lock makes them both freeze.

Allison's the only one with an extra key, apart from, well, Stiles had come home two weeks ago to find his entire bedroom contents - including dirty laundry - sitting on the curb with a For Sale sign, and he's got a pretty solid idea as to who it was. Changing the locks probably did little to deter _that_ person. He’s still missing at least four pairs of underpants.

Scott gives Stiles a wide-eyed look. "Just a minute!" he screeches, trying way too hard to be nonchalant as Stiles dives behind the door.

"Scott? What's going on?" Allison's voice calls through the partition, giving it a little shove for good measure, and _wow, strong?_ "Why are you using your I-dried-my-socks-in-the-oven-with-the-lasagne voice?

She sounds suspicious. It's bad.

"No reason!" he calls back, squirming around the room in an attempt to get the skin-tight suit off. "And they were my favourite pair! I didn't know swamp smell soaked into pasta, sweetie!"

" _Scott..."_

"It's uh," he holds out his hands looking to Stiles for help, but Stiles' mind has literally come up blank. He can't think of anything to say. For the first time ever, words have failed. "It's bad luck to see me in my suit before the wedding!"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "That's the bride in her dress, you idiot!" he hisses, and Scott bats the air in his direction, urging him to shut up while hopping on one leg.

"That's the bride and the wedding dress, Scott," she says exasperatedly, and Stiles holds up a palm, raising his brows. "And was that Stiles?" She instantly sounds wary. "Crap. What did you do?"

Scott's finally wrestled off the rest of the costume and has tugged on Stiles' pants. "We didn't do anything! We got suits for the wedding, just like you asked!"

There's a pause. "What kind of suits?"

"Just... You know, _suits._ Matching ones."

"Matching suits of _awesome!"_ Stiles snickers behind the door, and they mime an air-five. Seemingly, Stiles' approval seems to be enough for Allison's Spidey-senses to start tingling, and she gives the door one last almighty _shove_ , just enough to get her arm though and grab Stiles by the collar of his suit, banging his head into the door with a thud.

"OW!"

"What's going on, Scott?" she demands, slipping in, and Stiles pats around his head for a bump. "Why aren't you wearing a shirt? And how come Stiles--" She stops dead, once she finally twists to look behind the door and see Stiles standing there, wincing, in all his awesome suitage.

She breaks into a wide smile and points, before pulling a hand to her mouth and laughing, which _rude,_ but she's still slightly intimidating and marrying his best friend, so...

She turns back to take in the nervous look on Scott's face and abruptly stops giggling. "What's--"

The penny drops.

"Allison, hear me out," Scott starts, holding his palms up placatingly. Stiles straightens up, realising the time for supportive bro-dom is once again upon them, and poses in the suit.

"Is that...."

"They're replicas of the suits from TRON!" Scott exclaims, and Stiles takes it as his cue to launch in to 'The Robot'. She can't say no when she sees the thing in action. It's a pity they don't have the UV lamps set up, maybe some Daft Punk. He just has to make do with humming.

"We got them on sale from the comic book store," Scott continues, "Can you believe they only cost us 400 bucks?! And they gave us the UV light bulbs for free! We could set them up in the church, your dress would, like, _glow!"_

Allison is speechless. It's probably the awesome dancing. Many people can't handle it.

"See, dude?" Stiles says, hope bubbling up. "I told you it's all in the sales pitch! And that's not even-- Oh. Man. Is her eye twitching?"

* * *

“So long story short, I have like $400 store credit at the comic book store and I’m not sure whether to be happy about it.”

There’s no response, save for the scratch of pen on the clipboard, and the snap as he fastens it back into place. Derek holds it out, still not quite acknowledging Stiles’ existence.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me some time,” Stiles mutters, tucking it under his arm, and _that_ finally gets him eye contact. Fleeting, but still eye contact. Victory?

“I’ve been talking to you,” Derek responds, all faux-confused. He gestures between them with the hand not holding Stiles’ Peace Offering Coffee Number 22. “This last five minutes? Talking.”

Stiles has decided that it’s the thing he most hates - Derek pretending everything is fine with them, even though the freaking _janitor_ can tell it isn’t.

“Actually, that was _me_ talking, and before that, we were discussing the drug trials - which is strictly work conversation. C’mon, man, aren’t you done being mad yet?”

Derek turtle-faces. “‘M not mad.”

Stiles cocks his head.

“Just thought you didn’t need me teaching you anymore.”

Stiles rears back. “Whoa, hey, who said that?”

“You did,” Derek says, raising a brow.

“Did _not._ ”

“Did t--” He presses his mouth shut, letting out a sigh through his nose. “Look, I’m not arguing with you, Stilinski.” He shuffles back a step. “Take it as a compliment. You’re a big kid now. You don’t need me hanging around telling you what to do.”

He drains the coffee before dropping it in the trash, leaving Stiles with an odd sensation, like he’s adrift and unbuoyed. It sits uneasily in his stomach for a long moment, until he realises Lydia’s standing in front of him, snapping her fingers.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked you if you’ve got any details about who’s in for Chief Resident.”

“How should I know?” he shrugs irritably, moving to walk away.

She keeps pace with him, annoyingly enough. “Because your not-boyfriend is the one who decides, and he tells you everything.”

 _Not anymore._ “I have no idea, Lydia, okay? You’ve probably got it. He’s barely tolerating me right now.” It stings, but it’s true.

“Sure,” she retorts sarcastically. “Because ‘barely tolerating’ you is a good day for the rest of us. He’s probably going to pick you anyway; you’re on a two-month streak with no lost patients. I don’t know why I’m even asking.”

He stops, feeling his stomach turn. “Lyds, you’re amazing, alright? Probably the best resident we have. It’s anyone’s game.” Truthfully, Stiles has barely spared a thought for it with everything that’s going on. She deserves it a lot more than he does. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t still _want_ it, though. Derek choosing him would be the boost his confidence needs, and he hates himself a little bit for acknowledging that.

She studies his face for a beat. “Things really aren’t okay with you two, are they?”

He lets out a sigh, turning back towards the elevators. Coming to work just isn’t the same when he’s not constantly by Derek’s side. There’s so much he still wants to learn, so much he still has to go through as a doctor before he feels like he’s not scrambling for purchase. Derek’s still the only person who feels like dry land.

“I know what I did was right, but he can’t see it. It’s an impasse. It’s like I’ve, I don’t know, changed in his eyes..”

“Then make him see that you haven’t - not for the worse, anyway. If he won’t, then that’s his fault. It’s not like you actually _won_ the incentive. You didn’t actually gain anything out of it, and the chief didn’t somehow _corrupt_ your morality.”

“Yeah, but the fact I did it at all was bad enough, apparently.”

Her face goes stony, and he half expects to be smacked upside the head. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done it.

“Look, you and I? We didn’t take the easy route here. My dad was only interested in supporting me until he found out I wouldn’t marry a nice, rich lawyer and have a bunch of debutante babies, and you took every backdoor scholarship and loan you could get to run with the rest of the snotty, fratboy silver-spoons that had their grades paid for before they ever sat an exam. I don’t _need_ to remind you of this.” It’s true, and it says a lot for how far inside his head Derek is that she has to right now. She rests a hand on his jaw, fixing him with an intense, hazel-green stare. “You, me, Scott - we’re the best here, because we _fought_ for it. Because we wanted it when so much told us we couldn’t have it. Nobody should make you apologize for using what little advantages you have to your favor, no matter who they are.”

He swallows, hard, and tries to remember the same bravado he showed Derek when he told him the same thing. “You’re right, I-- yeah.”

“I usually am,” she agrees, stepping back. “So, for the thousandth time.. _stop second-guessing yourself_. It’s only cute if it’s warranted.”

He scoffs good-naturedly and waves her off, resuming his walk.

“Stiles?” she calls out, and he turns. “You’re better off without him, anyway.”

“You’re just saying that because it works out in your favor,” he smirks, and she lifts a shoulder.

“Maybe.”

* * *

He’d put the image of Nurse Boyd feeding Dr Reyes grapes down to the double shift he’s on, but usually his imagination stars a certain other member of staff in the hospital, and even he couldn’t conjure up an image as disturbing as this one. Boyd is smiling sweetly as he nuzzles into her cheek, and Erica curls her tongue around the delicate stem, practically fellating his fingers.

“We have on-call rooms you know,” he grumbles, kicking back into the empty chair at the nurses’ station, since she’s sitting on Boyd’s lap. “Don’t be afraid to give Lahey a free show.”

“You’re pissy for someone who hasn’t lost a patient in nearly three months,” Boyd points out.

“If only success in the rest of my life were so easily gauged.”

“Aww,” Erica coos, running her palm over her boyfriend’s shaved head. “Is your sexual frustration finally manifesting itself? We’re not the only ones who can make use of the empty bunk.”

“The day I jerk off at work is the day I officially give up on life,” he shudders. “Hey, I thought you guys broke up? Something to do with him still living with a 95-year-old.”

“Nana is 82,” Boyd corrects coolly. “And still in her prime.”

“Jeez, okay, unclench.”

“Vern moved out,” Erica says happily. “We’re looking at places together in midtown.” She lays a sweet kiss on his temple, and something in Stiles’ stomach contracts unpleasantly. Solutions are just so easy for some people.

“Yeah, well, let me know how that goes. Scott’s started checking the apartment listings, but I know how much Allison loves our place. It’s better if I’m the one to move out.” Just when he’s settling into things, it seems like so much is changing again. He’d never expected to keep Scott forever, but it’s still gonna suck all the dicks to make that break. Stiles tries not to think about it.

“I heard the janitor saying he’s looking for a roomie. Maybe you could ask him?”

Stiles shudders. “You’d never find my body.”

“What? He seems like such a sweetheart..”

“Are we talking about the same guy?” he gapes, and Boyd gives him a confused look.

“He helped Mitzy give birth.”

“His Nana’s pomeranian,” Erica explains. “It was beautiful. Oh, and there was that time he replaced my flat tire just before the storm hit.”

“Are you sure he didn’t _slash it in the first place?_ ”

Erica crinkles her nose and turns away from Boyd. “Stiles, I’m worried you’re projecting. You’re a good person. I’ve seen you do selfless things time and time again around here.”

“I’m really not.”

“But you _are,_ and good things will happen for you in time.”

“No, I mean I’m really not projecting,” he clarifies, letting his head loll back on the chair. “God, you’re even more annoying when you’re getting laid. How is that possible?”

“Ah, denial, the old fall-back,” she says sagely, and Boyd shakes his head, tuts, and holds up another grape.

* * *

“It’s people like you who make me nervous that hospitals have Yelp ratings now.”

Harris gives Stiles a look over his glasses that suggests he’s met dog turds he’s held more respect for, and the smirk drops off his face.

“The funny-bone transplant didn’t take, I see,” he mutters, just as Derek enters the room, reading a copy of the chart. The shitty thing about being a grown-up, is that even when there’s a weird vibe between you and someone else, you still have to work with them, and still have to pretend everything’s cool when, every time they avoid eye-contact with you, it feels like tiny knives are being shoved into your liver.

“Mr Harris,” Derek announces, setting the chart aside. “Seems like the universe wasn’t done kicking me in the crotch this year. Nice to see you again.”

“Is it?” Harris says blithely, “I’d have assumed that someone’s need to be in a hospital wouldn’t count as ‘nice’, but you’re the expert.”

There’s a moment where it seems like Derek is seriously contemplating throwing the guy out the window, but he gives an icy smile instead. “Stilinski, please present Mr Harris’ case so I can be _anywhere else_ right now.”

Stiles startles at the direct address. That usually doesn’t happen when there’s at least one other person in the room to talk to, but he shakes it off.

“Uh, building super found Mr Harris passed out on his kitchen floor after failing to respond to calls when the apartment flooded. Presenting with nausea, hypotension and respiratory distress.”

Derek nods and makes a note, and Stiles subtly steps closer.

“Needs a full blood work-up. How are you feeling, Mr Harris?”

The man gives him a withering look. “Almost as chipper as when my fiance dumped me right after breaking my penis!” he says, and Derek hands the chart off to Stiles with an eye-roll.

“Let’s use the nice, big needles, yeah?” he says lowly, walking out.

“Uh, Derek?” Stiles asks, scooting after him, but he doesn’t slow down. He sighs dejectedly. “Dr Hale?”

Derek stops and hesitates before turning. “What is it?”

“I wanted to bring up the Chief Resident position.” Derek clenches his jaw a little.

“I haven’t decided yet, and if I had, I couldn’t tell you before making an announcement.”

Stiles holds his hands up. “Yeah, I know that, I’m not asking you to like, give me the deets or whatever. It’s just... Lydia really wants it. And you and I both know she’d completely kill it, getting to boss people around and stuff.”

“Oh,” Derek responds, eyes widening minutely. “I thought... don’t you want it?”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles lifts a shoulder, snorting. “Of course I do, but it’d mean a lot more to her. I think you know she’s the best fit, too, but you guys are so--” he mimes knocking his fists together. “Sometimes it’s hard to see past her bullshit, you know?”

Derek studies him for a moment. “Yeah. It’s... you don’t have to worry, I’m already considering her.”

Stiles grins at him. “Seriously? That’s awesome. I lo-- _Thanks_!” He swallows tightly, wishing he couldn’t feel the heat creeping up his neck at the tongue-slip. Derek takes a step back, smirking half-heartedly.

“It’s not for you.”

“Of course. You’d have to be an idiot not to see how great she is, and you’re not... so....”

“Sure about that?” Derek says ruefully, his face doing something that’s not easy to interpret, and steps away. “Bloodwork, Stiles. Prom-queen campaigns later.”

Stiles can’t help but grin, because ‘ _Stiles.’_

“Right away, boss.”

* * *

Fewer things in life cause Stiles more joy than seeing Jackson get owned. When that’s by Laura Hale, it just makes everything a million times better, really.

“Let’s see you give a high five with two stumps, will we? Plenty of doctors around - I’m sure you won’t bleed out or anything.” She’s got him held by his chiseled jaw, thrust against the wall of the cafeteria, and several people are already instagramming the moment before Stiles can even get the app open. Shit.

“Uh,” Greenberg says, scratching at his neck. “I’m gonna have to encourage you to take this out into the parking lot, since instances of assault within the premises last year meant we couldn’t give out holiday bonuses.”

“Isn’t anyone going to get this crazy off me?” Jackson yelps, holding his hands out. Stiles elbows his way through the crowd to get the best angle. This is _gold._

“Alright, break it up,” The Janitor says, batting at them with a broom and causing Laura to level a glare back at him that would make saner men run shrieking into the bathroom. “Save the recreational amputation for Wednesday Night Fight Club. We meet in the basement before nine. Fee is a jar of rusty screws.”

“How about I just break both your thumbs,” Laura muses as she examines one of Jackson’s hands. “Far less messy.”

“What the hell is happening?” Lydia asks, freezing in the doorway mid-text. The cafeteria collectively to look at her, and she rests her fists on her hips.

“This little scuzzbucket offered to measure me for a new set of implants _by hand._ ”

“I’m thinking of going in to plastics as a specialty!” Jackson tries, but Lydia just closes her eyes.

“Jesus Christ... Okay, this pretty much seals it. Jackson, we’re done.” She puts a hand on Laura’s shoulder and eases her back. “As much as I’d approve of the maiming, his parents had his hands insured for close to a million. It’d just be pay day for him.”

Laura steps back, wiping her hands like Jackson’s very presence needs sanitizing. “The first suit brought against you by a patient? I’m representing them,” she warns, and backs away. “Hey,” she says to Lydia, drawing her eyes over her slowly, “feel like getting out of here?”

Lydia tilts her head, giving her a playful smile. “Sure.”

Stiles presses play on the video and elbows the nurse next to him. “Hey, I zoomed in right when he was about to start crying!”

* * *

 

When Stiles enters Harris’ room, Derek’s poised like he’s about ten seconds away from bolting impatiently out the door. It’s the first time they’ve been in close proximity since it seemed like the atmosphere was thawing between them, and Stiles is overwhelmingly curious to see if it’s lasted.

“Alright, what have you got?” Derek asks before he can get too close, and Stiles hesitates. The man in the bed has his arms crossed and is glaring out the window - no doubt Derek turned his usual brand of charm on him before Stiles got there. He mentally slaps himself, remembering where the fuck he is right now, and frowns at the test results.

“High levels of organophosphates in his system.” He looks up at the patient. “Have you had any exposure to pesticides lately Mr Harris?”

The man turns to let Stiles see his faux-contemplative expression. “Let’s see, my apartment is in a high-rise, and my job was at the university. What do _you_ think.”

“You don’t have any pest problems?” Stiles pushes, and the man levels him with a glare that suggests he didn’t until right that moment.

“Alright, well, keep digging,” Derek says with a tone of finality, and walks past Stiles into the hallway. Stiles slaps the chart on to the end of the man’s bed and scurries after him, dying for some kind of interaction.

Instead, he gets The Janitor.

“The nurse who broke my arm,” he says, eating a tomato like it’s an apple. _Eugh._ “She seeing anyone?”

Stiles blinks at him. "She’s engaged. You were at the party last year, remember?”

The Janitor appears to think about it and tosses the remains of the tomato over his shoulder. A nurse exits a doorway and slides all the way from one room into the opposite one, shrieking in terror.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“You spent the entire night trying to arm wrestle her _mother,_ ” he reminds him. Mrs Argent had won, and Derek used the excuse of The Janitor's sprained wrist to leave early and take him back to the hospital. That was right after their big argument over the chief’s incentive scheme, and Stiles had gotten woefully drunk to the point that Lydia had to sleep over. He tends to try to sleep in between Scott and Allison when he’s feeling delicate.

“I don’t think that was me,” The Janitor shrugs. “Anyway, my friend Herb needs a visa. He’s from Canada, and it’d be cruel to have to send him back to that hellhole.”

“Jesus, it’s like having a conversation with a cartoon character,” Stiles sighs, and makes clear eye contact. “ _Allison is getting mar-ried!_ She’s not available.”

The Janitor frowns. “This... fiance. How spry is he?”

“ _Oh my g--_ Dude, find someone else! No getting Scott whacked, no attempting to steal his fiancee. Capishe?” He backs away with a shake of his head, and The Janitor starts polishing a random doorknob.

“Crazy Italians,” he mutters when he thinks Stiles can’t hear.

“I’m Polish, bitch!” he calls back, and then spontaneously decides to run all the way to the Resident’s lounge for completely unrelated reasons.

* * *

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Chief Hale purrs. Stiles glares suspiciously from behind Boyd as the man trails his fingers slowly down Isaac’s neck and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Celebrations are in order.”

“Are you dying?” Derek asks blandly, leaning against the desk of the nurses’ station and eerily mirroring Stiles’ folded-arm stance.

“My nephew, the class clown.”

Stiles lets out a snort and then smacks Boyd in panic with the back of his hand, giving him a disapproving look. Boyd doesn’t even react, just ninja-grips Stiles’ fingers and crushes them in his giant hand until there are tears in his eyes. _Note for journal later- use Erica as human shield._

“Doctor Lahey is about to close out his first week without losing a single patient,” Chief Hale says proudly with a cock of his head.

“Holy shit!” Scott exclaims, maneuvering gently past Allison to offer him a high five. Jackson edges his way closer to get in on the action.

Stiles holds his hands out. “Uh, hi? Three months, no bodybags here?”

“To celebrate, I’ve ordered a pizza for Isaac to have with all his little friends here,” Hale says in the most condescending way possible. He glances back at Greenberg, who startles from poking a pen in his own ear to raise his brows as some kind of approval. “I’m told it’s only a tiny fraction of what his legal costs could have been. Enjoy.”

It’s always a surprise when he doesn’t turn into a bat or something, but once Chief Hale’s gone, Isaac relaxes into smugness. “Check it out - not a single messed up IV, misdiagnosis, lost lab report or over-medication. I’m kind of on fire.”

“You’re a liability. I’m eighty percent sure you still work here because of your cheekbones,” Derek tells him, shaking his head and turning dismissively away to talk to Allison.

“Pssh, whatever. I didn’t poison myself or anyone else this week, and I don’t even have to get another psych eval - so who’s the loser now?”

Lydia looks horrified. “Isaac, if the time ever comes where you find I need medical assistance... please run and get an adult.”

“What did you just say?” Stiles asks, and Isaac raises a brow when he’s addressed.

“Couple weeks ago I had to get my stomach pumped because I mixed up some bottles. Erica asked me a bunch of invasive questions.”

“She’s dedicated,” Boyd pipes up from nowhere in her defense, and then wheels his little cart away. It falls into place, and Stiles feels his stomach lurch when the pieces line up.

“Derek,” Stiles says urgently, reaching back until he can feel the material of his coat beneath his fingers. “Have Erica paged. We have to go to Harris’ room. Now.”

___

Erica’s already there by the time Derek arrives. Stiles glances at him as he enters, chewing on his bottom lip unsurely.

“Mr Harris,” she says gently. She’s wearing that expression that makes Stiles want to pour out all his secrets to her, but all she’s getting is a wary expression from the patient. “How have things been lately?”

“Wonderful as ever,” the man says sarcastically, and looks to Derek hovering in the doorway. “What’s going on? ”

“You’ve had a tough run lately,” Stiles cuts in. “How long has it been since you lost your job?”

Harris seems to freeze, scowling like he’s not sure when he let that slip. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s _Professor_ Harris, right?” Erica asks. “And Dr Stilinski tells me this is your second hospital visit in as many years. You were engaged last time...”

“What are you getting at?” Harris barks, instantly clamming up.

“They’re getting at the fact that the levels of toxins in your blood were way above anything consistent with accidental poisoning,” Derek says, shouldering off the door and coming further into the room. Stiles presses his lips together dejectedly, watching him move. Of course it wouldn’t take Derek long to catch on. “And I bet if we ran more tests, they’d find evidence of liver damage from long-term alcohol abuse. They’re trying to help you, because hopefully, that’s all this was. A cry for help. ”

Harris just stares at him for a second before letting out a dismissive grunt. “You people are nuts. Is this what my insurance is paying for? Made-up theories that mean you can squeeze every cent out of my plan? Save it for some other gullible idiot.”

“You’re an intelligent man,” Derek tells him, unperturbed. “Intelligent enough to know that’s not what this is.”

“Life’s been shitting on you for a while now,” Stiles says. “Everyone has their bottom, and there’s no shame in reaching yours. What’s important is that you’re still around to get back up.”

“Spare me the after-school-special brand of psychobabble,” Harris spits, “The day I take life advice from baby doctors who barely shave once a week is the day I’ll check my _self_ into a psych ward.”

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but Erica lays a hand on Harris’ arm. “Then don’t,” she says. “I’m gonna suggest these two take a hike and then you can convince _me_ why you don’t need me here.”

She glances back at Stiles and Derek, and Stiles feels himself being gently tugged out of the room.

“I know what you’re doing,” Harris sniffs, and Erica smiles.

“I have no doubt about that.”

Outside the doorway, they stand in silence for a second. Surprisingly, Derek’s the one who opts to break it when he turns to give Stiles his full attention.

“Good catch.”

Stiles shrugs. “Thanks. I guess the clues were there, we were just so caught up in what an asshole he is to see it.”

Derek grunts, looking past his folded arms to his feet. “You could have just let him get discharged. Preserved your streak.”

“Not really my style, is it?” he replies with a twist to his mouth. “Honestly, I should have seen it sooner. I guess there’s also the fact we’ve been a little... distracted, lately.” He, keeps his eyes focused on the wall by Derek’s head. “Look, I’m not saying we have to be BFFs and eat lunch together every day - but we were close to letting that guy go home just so we wouldn’t have to spend extra time in the same room together, and he’d have tried to hurt himself again. That’s not okay.”

Derek clenches his jaw with a nod. It doesn’t seem like he’s willing to say anything else, and Stiles lets out a sigh. He shouldn’t expect anything else.

“Alright, well..” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I have patients, so...”

He walks off slow enough for Derek to call out if he wants to, but it doesn’t happen.

* * *

Laura Hale grinning sweetly at her phone would be unsettling on a good day, but the singing is making Stiles’ nerves go into overdrive.

“ _Well listen up stud, your life's been wasted ‘til you've got down on your knees and tasted...a red headed wo-mannn.”_

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes, causing her to look up with a start. “Are you singing about who I think you’re singing about?”

A slow smile creeps across Laura’s stained lips. “What if I am?”

Stiles takes a second to enjoy the mental image before reprimanding himself for being skeezy. “Whoa.”

“You look like your brain just short-circuited,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big a deal."

“No, it’s just... I thought you were just friends - didn’t know you were each other’s... _type._ ”

“Says the bisexual who’s deeply in love with my brother.”

Stiles clamps his mouth shut. “You know what I mean."

“Hey, my type is ‘beautiful and intelligent’,” she shrugs. “Lydia...” There’s a dreamy sigh. “Is exploring her options. I don’t know, it’s new.” Laura holds up a finger. “Don’t go freaking out at her about this.”

“No ma’am,” he promises, crossing his heart. “But maybe you should threaten him.” He points to where Jackson is turned fully around in his seat behind her, clearly eavesdropping with a dazed look on his face. Laura sighs.

“Hey Abercrombie, how do you think jerking that tiny thing would go if I only left you with your pinkies?”

Jackson frowns. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

Laura’s eyes narrow. “Mm-hmm. Keep it that way.” Stiles decides to keep walking before he has to give a witness statement or something.

“Hey Stiles?” Laura calls out, because she never lets him away with anything. He turns expectantly. “I’m happy you’ve stopped denying it.”

He looks down at his tray, hoping the blush isn’t too obvious and lifts a shoulder. “What’s the use anymore?”

* * *

Stiles’ education to date has yet to give him a proper insight into the workings of the human brain. It’s funny how one moment you can be so caught up in one consuming emotion - be it anger or hurt or confusion - and the next you’re off on a tangent, so detached, that it’s only after thorough examination you can manage to connect it to the original thought.

Like the moment he realised he’d leaned forward and kissed Derek.

It’s not like it came from _nowhere_. He’s made peace with the part of himself that needed to be _on that_ and though he’s made an actual list of the reasons not to - the reasons to file it into that part of his mind marked ‘Fantasies That Cannot And Will Not Ever Happen’ - somewhere in the crossed wires, the signal wasn’t sent to the hand that clutched abruptly at Derek’s shirt or to his lips when he sealed them over Derek’s and _breathed in._

It’s not about getting named Co-Chief Resident. It’s not even about the fact that Derek thinks he’s good enough for the title; that he’s on a par with _Lydia Freaking Martin._ It’s the way Derek had looked at him when he made the announcement, like something between them was fixed - or at least Derek hoped it would be.

Alright, so he should back up for a second. Make that reverse-record sound and rewind to five minutes ago when hush had fallen over the Residents’ Lounge when Derek walked in. He’d had this unsure look on his face, not something Stiles has seen him wear in the hospital before, and awkwardly folded his arms as all eyes turned to him. Naming Stiles as Co-Chief along with Lydia was about the last thing he’d expected to hear, and the sheer shock at what he’d heard gave Derek the head-start to high-tail out of there and into the elevator like he was outrunning interns before shift-end. But, you know, in a Derek way which meant long strides and Eyebrows of Doom.

Stiles had dived in, just as the doors pinged, leaving him face-to-face with an uncomfortable-looking attending. The universe narrowed down to that - just two guys in a tiny space, staring at each other like something was about to explode and neither wanted to move to be the cause of it. Stiles had breathed - or tried to - watching Derek like somehow, ridiculously, he’d bolt. The guy was cornered and stiff, radiating all the welcoming energy of a forced night-shift at the free clinic during Rush Week.

“Why?” was all Stiles could say when he found his voice. He wasn’t sure where he’d lost it... maybe somewhere in the uttering of his name or the way looking this ridiculous man in the eyes always makes his tongue a little heavy. Derek barely reacted; maybe stared at him for a moment. The doors opened on the next floor, but one harsh glare from Dr Hale ensured they were left alone.

“You’re the best fit,” he’d said at last, giving a shrug like that was the end of it. No way. Stiles pivoted his body around between Derek and the doors, and mirrored his folded arms.

“And?”

“And so is Martin.”

Stiles resisted the urge to growl. Barely. “ _And...?_ ”

Derek tore his eyes away at last, muscles in his jaw jumping as he seemed to force the words past his lips. “And I’ve been unfair to you. Held you accountable for actions that weren’t yours to account for, and that was wrong.”

Stiles felt relief flooding him, so raw and forceful he wanted to slump, but instead he gravitated towards Derek, needing to be in his space.

“And...?” he said for a third time, pulse quickening when Derek’s eyes flicked to the smirk on his lips. He let his own tug playfully at the corner of his mouth, threatening to come out, just for Stiles.

“And... I was an asshole,” he admitted sincerely, saying it with his eyes as much as his voice. “You’re the absolute last person to compromise your principles over getting ahead. You’ve had plenty of opportunity to use m-- people for your own gain, and you haven’t. I know that, and I’m sorry.”

And that’s when Stiles had kissed him.

At first he thinks the whoosh in his stomach is the movement of the elevator, but after several long seconds of a clumsy meeting of mouths, feeling Derek’s breath fan across his cheeks and the scape of his stubble on Stiles’ bottom lip, he realises one of the arms that had been locked tightly around his waist is now braced against the wall, pressing Stiles against it. The lights dim as Derek slams the emergency-stop, and the earth shudders for a moment - but they don’t part. He kind of wants to groan at the stupid cliche of it all, or maybe just because Derek’s pausing to breathe hotly into his mouth, but he can’t trust anything that’ll come out past his lips right now, and he never, _ever_ wants Derek to stop kissing him.

I happens, though. when the scratch of the intercom comes through the speakers. “Uh,” the muffled voice says, “we have to re-start the elevator now, Dr Hale.” Derek pulls back with a startled expression, like he’d completely forgotten where they actually were - Stiles _may_ be wearing the same one - and he sucks on his bottom lip. He blinks a couple of times, lets a little huff out through his nose, and glances at the security camera with a contrite nod. Stiles clutches at him when they start to move again, lights coming back to full power and it’s that moment when they both straighten up.

What the fuck are they _doing?_

The real world shoves its way back in and Stiles, once the doors have opened again on god-knows-what floor, stumbles his way back out. The elevator doors start to close between them. Derek looks right at him, his eyes intent on Stiles. He can still taste him on his lips, the ghost of his hands on his body, and just stands there, letting the doors slide shut, fused to the spot.

It’s only when Derek disappears from view that Stiles lets himself freak out.

___

He paces to one end of the room and turns, trying to steady his breathing. Lydia hums softly under her breath as she sutures a bike messenger’s shin with the kind of flawless quality he’s only ever seen from his grandmother’s needlepoint.

The guy groans softly, and Lydia gives him a reassuring pat before he passes out again.

Stiles can’t ever seem to get the balance right. He’s been wishing that Derek would quit shutting down on him all the time, that they could get back to a point where they’re on a good footing together and - of _course -_ Stiles has to go mess it all up. For once, his dumb mouth has gotten him into trouble again, and it’s not because of the words coming out of it.

“Spit it out,” she says boredly, snipping the thread. Stiles pauses in his latest lap, stares at her for a second, and then begins walking again.

“I did something bad.”

She blinks up at him and tilts her head. Normally he’d go to Scott with this, but every time Stiles has an issue in his love life, Scott gets this hopeful little look on his face, and he kind of needs someone to yell at him right now.

“Malpractice Suit bad, or Sucked Our Attending Off In An Unused Room bad?”

He gapes back at her, but before he can freak out at her (albeit over-exaggerated) perceptiveness, his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. It’s Allison.

“I did something bad,” she says in lieu of a greeting, and Stiles’ brows rise.

“No shit, so did I.”

“Are you alone?” Her voice is shaking, and Stiles is taken aback. This might be the first time he’s ever experienced Allison being anything but composed.

He glances at Lydia and rests the phone on his shoulder, mouthing ‘ _later_ ’ as he slips out of the room. “I am now. What’s up.”

“Can you come home? I-- Stiles I messed up, and I didn’t know who else to call. It’s-- Please come.”

He feels his own sense of panic kicking in. He was due to leave soon anyway, and he’s mainly been ducking around the hospital offering to do tasks that will keep him out of Derek’s way. Because he’s a grown-up like that and all.

“Whoa, yeah, okay,” he soothes. “I can be there in twenty. What happened?”

The line goes quiet, and he hears a sob before she sucks in a shaky breath. “I think I killed Jackson.”

___

Allison is pacing his living room when he gets there. He slams the door shut and bolts it, closes the blinds and stops in front of her.

“Where is he?” he asks. She points at Scott’s bedroom - the one that’s basically hers, too, and swallows.

“He’s in _there?_ ” Stiles says frantically, over-gesturing to the door.

“I didn’t know where to put him!” she yelps, chewing furiously on her thumbnail. “This-- this is bad, right?”

Stiles buries both his hands in his hair and tries to think. He feels sick, and has no idea why Allison would think of _him_ first when this happened, but she needs him to be strong right now. He loves her - _Scott_ loves her, and he’s not letting her go to jail. In a fit of madness, he pulls out his phone and dials.

“Who are you calling?” Allison demands, but he turns away from her, needing to think.

“Who told?” his dad says when he picks up, and Stiles blanches.

“What?”

“You always seem to have a sixth sense for when I’ve just had a physical, and I wanna know who’s ratting on me. Is it Cheryl?”

“Wh-- _no_ , Dad. I-- I need to ask you something, and I need you not to ask me any questions, just answer them.” There’s a creak like his father’s leaning forward in his favorite chair, and Stiles swallows hard.

“Okay, kid.”

“So uh, say there was a dead body...”

“Stiles...”

Allison’s hand on his shoulder spins him around, and she mouths _“What the fuck?”_ maniacally in his face.

“How, uh... what would be the best way of getting rid of say, a person with extremely rich, well-connected parents--”

“Stiles!” Allison yells, at the same time as his dad starts cursing on the line. “I meant the fucking _lizard_ , not the douchebag!”

Stiles gapes at her, his dad yelling in his ear. “Jesus Christ kid, if anything’s gonna give me a heart attack it’s you.”

“You... you called me to ditch work early because you think you killed our _lizard?_ ”

“He’s not moving!” she yells defensively, gesturing at the bedroom door. “Scott _loves_ that thing.”

“Holy shit, I thought you needed me to help you get rid of a body!”

“Stiles, are you kidding me with this?” his dad says. “Why would you call me about that?”

“I needed a professional opinion!” he shouts, and Allison buries her face in her hands.

“Can you come look at the damn lizard, please?“ she groans, and Stiles follows her into the room, hitting speakerphone. Jackson the lizard looks... well, the same as he always does.

“Allison, I’m pretty sure he’s breathing,” he tells her. He can see the little belly moving.

“You mean the damn thing isn’t even dead?” his dad sighs, and Stiles shrugs.

“But I unplugged his heat lamp when I was drying my hair!” she says. “He hasn’t moved since!”

“Don’t those things hibernate?” Dad asks, and Stiles’ brows jump.

“That’s a good point,” he says to the phone and then to Allison, “Google it?”

Allison pulls out her phone and taps at it urgently with shaking fingers. After a moment, she gasps. “Oh my god, you’re a genius!”

“Are you saying,” Dad says wearily, “That you two knuckleheads adopted a pet without researching basic things about whether it _hibernates?_ ”

Stiles gulps. “He was on sale?”

“Christ,” Dad sighs.

“Look, you’re always saying I’ve got poor impulse control,” he defends, “It’s not my fault, and it’s not like giving a poor, unwanted reptile a home is the worst thing that’s resulted from that.” He studies the ground thoughtfully, realizing the person who always has the right advice is on the other end of the phone. He switches off speaker. “Hey, Dad?”

“What did you do?”

“Uh, another hypothetical, that... um... say there was someone you liked. _Loved_ , even, maybe...”

Allison’s face softens and she reaches out to stroke Jackson’s little scaly head.

“I’d say they’re an idiot if they don’t want you back.”

Stiles huffs good-naturedly. “Um, no... that’s not the problem, I don’t think. Say, there was a lot more riding on your relationship than just getting to be together. That you were afraid that you might ruin what you already have if you become something, uh, more. How do you know when it’s worth it?”

There’s silence as his dad seems to think about it. “I think... it’s not a decision you can make on your own,” he says. “I think, if my kid’s as smart as he’s always been, he’d have fallen for someone just as brainy as he is, and that the both of you together can make the right decision. But it’s not fair to leave the other person out of it, because you never know what you’re giving up without exploring all your options. Does that make sense?”

Stiles breathes deeply, wondering why he’s been making all these decisions without Derek the whole time, when in almost every other aspect of his life, Derek’s opinion has carried the most weight.

“Yeah dad,” Stiles nods, smiling. “It does.”

“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I need a shot of whiskey because I might actually be about to have a stroke.”

“Sure thing, Pops,” Stiles smirks. “Oh, and about that physical..”

“I’ll have the doc email you a full report tomorrow,” he grumbles, and Stiles’ smirk breaks out into a grin.

“Awesome. G’night, love to Cheryl!”

“Love to Derek!” Dad says, and hangs up immediately.

“What the hell?” Stiles breathes, staring at his phone. Scott is such a fucking blabbermouth. When he looks up, Allison is smiling softly at him. “What?”

She gets to her feet and plants a kiss to his cheek, ruffling his hair affectionately. “You were gonna help me dispose of a dead body,” she says with fondness.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “I kinda worship you, and if you went to prison, Scott would probably tunnel his way in there. ”

“I know,” she says happily. “What an ass.”

“Right?” Stiles says, and then clutches his chest with a look of distress. “I love him so much.”

Allison rolls her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m marrying two people,” she grumbles, going straight for the wine. “Want some?”

Stiles is tempted; nights getting drunk with Allison are the _best_ \- but there’s somewhere he needs to be.

“Nah,” he says. “I gotta get back to the hospital. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The preview is [here](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com/private/115534084524/tumblr_nmbb94nEKQ1s30jbh). Thanks for sticking with me!


	5. Residency - 3 (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles gets the guy, Derek Gets Some, Allison gets drunk a lot (for research), Lydia really needs to get her own office, and Scott gets married (loosely in that order).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY THERE'S ANOTHER CHAPTER IT WAS GETTING TOO LONG.  
> The second part will be up by the time you're done reading this.  
> Pay attention to new character tags and if the presence of a certain person being added is a cause for concern for you, please read the [end notes so you can make an informed decision before going on after this chapter.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/676439/chapters/8224249#chapter_5_endnotes)

“Page Derek!” he tells Boyd, who was most definitely playing Kwazy Cupcakes when Stiles slapped his hand on the desk. “No wait, don’t. He might panic. I’m panicking. Calm down, Boyd.”

“Derek is asleep,” he supplies helpfully, pointing down the hall to the on-call rooms.

“Good! No, wait, he’s probably going to be grumpy. I should have had wine.”

“What is happening.”

“I’m gonna do it, Boyd. Now’s the time to stop me if you think it’s a bad idea.”

“Is this about the kissing in the elevator?”

“You _know_ about that?”

“Most people do.”

“Fuck. Is he okay?”

Boyd lifts a shoulder. “Derek and I play poker every week. He...mentions you.”

Stiles leans on the counter. “He does?”

“You made him look less like a facial composite from the police you see on the news. You should do that more.”

Stiles leans down until his forehead is braced on his arm, and his feet stumble out behind him. He grins, shooting back up.

“Okay, I’m going. Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” Boyd says, and starts a new game.

The fact that Stiles knows Derek’s favorite bunk in the on-call room - bottom, right by the door - probably says a lot, but back when Stiles was interning, he liked to know exactly where Derek was if he needed him, and Derek was almost always there. Stiles knows how he takes his coffee, that the only sitcoms he does that little huff-laugh at feature powerful females who remind him of his sister. That he has a cowlick in his hair that won’t stay down without product and will pat at it intermittently if he didn’t get time to fix it in the morning. He knows what Derek’s eyes look like at 2am after a double shift - somehow more green against the broken capillaries - and that he hates ranch dressing to the point of quietly brooding if it’s on his salad. There are a thousand tiny ways Stiles knows Derek, and probably even more that Derek knows Stiles, but he doesn’t know how he ever thought it would be enough. That working in proximity would be enough for the way his heart ticks up and his adrenaline races every time they’re around each other.

He wipes his palms on his pants and bursts in, because he doesn’t trust himself to wait around anymore.

“Let’s try this again,” he announces, flicking on a light. Derek sits up with a start and squints at him. “Oh god.” He turns the light off again for his own sanity.

“Stiles?” Derek croaks. Add morning-voice to the list; how could he forget the morning-voice?

“Put on a shirt,” Stiles demands, looking at the ceiling. He can still fucking see him in the streetlights through the window. “I can’t have this conversation with your nipples looking at me all judge-y.”

“Wh’t time’s it?”

“ _Shir_ t, man, for the love of god!”

“Isn’t your shift over?” Derek - still shirtless - asks. God, he looks like a plaster cast of a Ken doll. If Ken dolls were covered in thick, dark hair and gave boners. Derek scrubs at his face and throws his legs over the side of the bunk. He’s not wearing pants. The universe is fucking with Stiles right now.

“I kissed you earlier.”

Derek cracks open one eye at him. “I was there.”

“I kissed you and I didn’t plan to, and I kind of didn’t handle it well, because I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

Derek’s brows jump, and his eyes track Stiles as he paces in the small space left in the room. He smirks.

“I didn’t--” Stiles breathes. “I thought it’d be better if we didn’t act on...on whatever this is, because you’re kind of like my boss and I didn’t want it to interfere with that.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and turns back to the bed, where Derek is watching him intently. “But it did anyway. How I feel about you isn’t going away, and you and I are... it doesn’t work, trying to be one over the other. And I wanted to make you think I wasn’t interested in us being-- but then I fucked up.”

“By kissing me,” Derek adds. He sounds almost self-satisfied, and Stiles wills himself not to be turned on by it.

“Yeah,” Stiles says to his hands. “And I didn’t wanna be _that guy_ ; the one who seduces his boss--”

“You’re _seducing_ me?”

“--to gain something from it. Shut up.”

Derek’s cheeks twitch in a smile. “I know you aren’t. I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss you first, but...”

Stiles swallows at the memory. “The timing wasn’t right.”

“I still wanted to kiss you.”

All the talk of kissing is making Stiles light-headed, and he flops down to the edge of the bed by Derek’s side.

“It wasn’t just about the whole boss thing. That first time, you weren’t in a good place, and I had to make that decision for you because I care about you a lot. But today someone made me see I shouldn’t be making those decisions anymore. That you get a say, too.”

“That’s kind of you,” Derek deadpans, and Stiles stiffens his mouth.

“I just-- I don’t want to go into this with anything unsaid. I’m sick of wanting you and pretending that the way I feel about you is just because of professional respect. It’s so much more than that.” He blanches a little, realizing how far ahead of himself he might be getting. “If we go into this at all, that is. For all I know you’ve re-thought this entire thing and you’re pawning me off to another attending and I’m making an ass of myself.”

“I don’t kiss people unless I want to, Stiles.”

Stiles turns his eyes on him and nods. “Good.”

“Good,” Derek agrees. He looks at Stiles’ mouth and back up to his eyes. “Can I kiss you now?”

Stiles wets his lips involuntarily. “You’re asking?”

“Well, the last couple times it didn’t work out so well for me, so I didn't think it would hurt.”

“God,” Stiles groans screwing his eyes shut. “Can we have a do-over?” He feels Derek’s hand resting on his jaw, and his heart does that back-flip thing that he is never, ever getting used to. When he opens his eyes, Derek is closer. He’s fucking beautiful even in the shitty lighting from the window, and Stiles almost falls forward to him, completing the distance between their lips.

It’s just as urgent as last time, only now it’s less like he’s stumbling into it and more like he’s taking control. He sucks Derek’s bottom lip between his and feels a corresponding squeeze to the flesh by his hip. Derek breaks away first, nudging his nose into Stiles cheek for a breath before sealing their mouths together again and slipping his tongue inside. Stiles’ heart pounds, and he shifts around until Derek is laying back on the sheets and climbs on top of him.

The sounds in the room dull to their hands tracing over each other and the intermingling of their breaths. Derek pushes up beneath his scrub shirt and digs strong fingers into the flesh, anchoring him to the moment and guiding him like he’s done it a thousand times before. He can feel him hot and hard against him, and he grinds down, rewarded with a hitch of breath and a foot hooked around his ankle. Stiles grins victoriously and kicks his shoes off, letting Derek help ruck his shirt up and away. He hasn’t fucked anyone since college; hasn’t really wanted to, if he’s honest with himself - and right in this moment there isn’t a part of him that feels like he’s been deprived.

Feathery touches trace over his back, and Stiles grinds down again when Derek buries a hand in his hair, not letting their mouths part for a second.

They keep going like that, their skin heating up. There’s so much of Derek for him to touch and kiss that he focuses solely on that, biting lightly down on his pec when Derek squeezes his ass.

 _Derek is touching my butt_ , he thinks maniacally, and is instantly distracted again with lips on his neck, hot breath blowing up the baby hairs at the nape in delightful shivers. He pushes up on one arm, enough to get a hand down between them and runs his fingers over the outline in Derek’s underwear. He can barely believe he’s getting to do this - it’s been too many long years of pent-up tension and fantasies he doesn’t let himself think of in the light of day. The real thing is intense, and he presses his forehead to Derek’s jaw so he can watch keenly the jump of muscles in his abs. He kisses him again in celebration, because he just has to, letting his hand squeeze lightly through the fabric.

Derek gathers himself enough to hook a thumb in the elastic of his pants, clumsily edging the material down for Stiles’ cock to spring free, throbbing and heated. He catches his mouth in a kiss right before touching him, instantly pulling back to wet his hand and do this little _twist_ that locks every one of Stiles’ joints in unison. The strength leaves him for a moment. He just lets himself get kissed and touched before giving in to the need to get his hands on Derek _right then_ , and reaching inside his underwear.

Stiles will never be the same again. His life is forever changed at the second he learns that _Derek Hale is uncut._ He groans at how unfair it is. How is he ever going to get anything done when he has this information in his head? He jerks him slowly and deliberately, trying desperately to maintain his breathing when Derek’s hand is doing amazing things to his dick spreading pre-come over him and he’s leaving hot little open-mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach.

He jolts as the hand on him lets go a second to squeeze at his balls, and Stiles lets out a ragged _fuck_ at the returning blood flow that makes his knees weak. Derek gets his hand sloppy again and reaches back for him. Stiles lose breath. He lays his forearm on the pillow by Derek’s head and clutches at his jaw, kissing and panting against his mouth as his orgasm builds up and up and he lets it, coming hot and hard over Derek’s stomach. Derek sucks in a breath at the sensation, and Stiles tries valiantly to keep going, to get him off because he is certain there has never been a more important task bestowed upon him in his entire life.

Derek is _stunning_ close to orgasm. Perspiration gathers in the hollow of his chest, and he sucks in shocked breaths like he can’t help himself, quietly grunting and biting his lip through it. It’s when Stiles kisses his neck that he stiffens, his come spilling over Stiles’ hand and messing them both up until all he can do is tip over to one side, sated, watching Derek catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he tells the bottom of the bunk above them. His blinks become extended and Stiles presses his lips to his shoulder, sharing the sentiment.

They lay together for several moments, just letting the afterglow ride out. “No going back now, I guess,” Stiles says jokingly, but gulps all the same.

“Wouldn’t want to,” Derek says, before turning to look at him. “You?”

Stiles grins. “Not a chance,” he replies. He kisses Derek and sits up to grab his scrub top, wiping them both down because he’s a fucking gentleman like that. He’s too rubber-limbed to do any more, and immediately snuggles back between Derek and the wall. Derek rearranges his boxers and throws an arm around him.

“Staying?” he asks quietly.

Stiles opens a groggy eye to look at him. “If you want a bed to yourself, y’gonna have to move.”

Derek presses their foreheads together and tightens his hold. “Not a chance,” he echoes, and kisses his cheek.

* * *

 

Waking up next to Derek for the first time should have been a sweet, private experience that they’ll remember forever. What Stiles gets, is Scott.

“Dude!” he exclaims, leaving the door wide open. “No way!”

“Why is he here?” Derek mumbles into Stiles’ neck.

“Door, Scott,” Stiles groans, frowning against the sunlight.

“Oh, sorry.” The door slams, but Scott is clearly still on their side of it. “But this is dope! You’ve been wanting to bone him for years!” Stiles smirks and reaches out for an uncoordinated high five, and Scott rearranges his coffee to return it.

“How are you this functional?” Derek asks him, turning to lay on his back and scratch at his nose.

“I have a Peds rotation today. Peds rules.”

“Please stop talking,” Derek sighs, and Stiles snuffles in and almost drifts back to sleep.

“Hey, dude be cool,” Scott scolds. “You’re banging my bro now, so we have to be bros.”

“That’s not a rule,” Derek grunts. “And stop saying ‘bro’.”

“No. Stiles, tell him.”

“Bro by association,” Stiles mumbles agreeably into Derek’s arm. “‘s the law.”

“I regret everything immediately,” Derek laments. Stiles lifts his head just enough to see that he’s smirking, and punches him lightly in the ribs.

“Don’t be a dick.”

“We’re both dicks, it’s how this works.”

Stiles smiles dopily. “Yeah.” He scrubs a hand in his hair and turns back to Scott, who’s beaming at the two of them. “Little privacy Scotty?”

“Oh, sure. Hey, come find me later. Need your opinion on wedding stuff.”

“No problem. Grab me a bagel?”

“All the bacon,” Scott ensures.

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles sighs. Today is the best day in the history of days. ”Love you.”

“You too, man,” Scott beams, reaching for the door. “Oh and Derek? We’re gonna talk!” He points to his eyes with two fingers and back to Derek, narrowing them before the door slides shut.

Derek frowns at it for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Should I worry?”

“Probably,” Stiles says blandly. The springs in the bunks squeak as Derek turns over to lean over him.

“G’morning.”

“G’morning yourself.” Stiles leans up and kisses him, grunting softly at how right it all feels. “Still with me?”

Derek nods.

“Ready to go out there?”

Derek shakes his head.

“Me neither,” Stiles huffs. Derek kisses him soundly again and pulls back to run his nose down Stiles’ cheek. Their feet bump together beneath the scratchy blankets, and Stiles has a moment of pure, blinding bliss that he gets to know what lying beside Derek feels like. He breathes through it, tugging at a thread. “We can keep it quiet, if you want. Though, Scott’s probably telling people as we speak.”

Derek shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me. It’s what we think that matters. What do you think?”

Stiles mulls it over. “I think we take it as it comes, but I also think we should stay in here for the next ten minutes just making sure we definitely have touched each other’s dicks and I didn’t imagine everything.”

There’s a soft laugh as Derek lets his head drop to Stiles’ shoulder.

“If you say so.”

“I do have a very creative imagination,” he shares, hooking his knee over Derek’s hip. “I can show you if you want.”

Derek looks up at him, devastating green eyes intent on his mouth. “Definitely.”

* * *

 

“And his _butt._ I mean, his butt could probably revive the dead. I think _I_ died for a while after I first touched it.”

Isaac frowns uncomfortably. “If I stuck these thumbtacks in my ears, do you think I wouldn’t have to listen to this?”

“He’d probably insist on treating you and still keep talking,” Boyd tells him woefully, speaking out the side of his mouth.

Isaac’s nose crinkles. “Yeah.”

“And it’s not like he’s _over-built_. It’s like, natural, you know?” Stiles gestures around his shoulders. “Yesterday he came back from a run and it was like everything was slow motion.”

“I liked it better when you were in denial,” Boyd decides. “Go back to that.”

“Stiles?” Allison frowns, massaging her neck as she approaches. “What are you still doing here?”

Stiles releases a dreamy sigh. “Floating on a cloud of _love_ I think?”

She jerks her chin back. “That’s really nice, but didn’t you promise Scott you’d pick his mom up from the airport? He’s stuck in surgery all day and I’m so short-handed it’s ridiculous.”

Stiles scrambles off his chair. “Oh my god, _Melissa!_ ”

Scott’s mom’s face is like thunder by the time he pulls up outside the airport. It’s been raining and her hair is all poofy, which makes her kind of look like Storm from X-Men.

“He left it to _you,_ ” Melissa deduces when she sees him, raising a brow. “The same guy who convinced him to spend his inheritance from his deadbeat father on a _dirt bike._ ”

“Melissa, queen of my everything.” He grabs her suitcases and shoves it into the back of the jeep before closing it. She’s still standing in the one spot disapprovingly.

“Stiles, the extra son I never asked for.” She tilts her cheek up for a kiss and he plants one on her.

“I missed you.”

“You don’t call enough,” she says irritably, fixing the collar of his jacket. “Scott has a conference with me and your father every week, and I have to hear everything about you second hand.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better. I’ll give you the honest lowdown on the way to the apartment,” he assures her as he clutches his chest, knowing exactly the cause for her unease. “Spoiler - Allison really is as great as he makes out.”

She gives him a suspicious little smile. “That’s all I need to know. I see this girl on video calls but it’s hard to tell.”

“Hey, have I ever let our Scotty get steered wrong?”

Mrs McCall folds her arms and glares. “Matching buzz-cuts.”

“It grew back!”

“My kid looked like a roasted peanut for six weeks. All that gorgeous, thick hair, _gone_.”

“Yeah well, at least we knew for sure his head was shaped normally?”

She waits for him to open the door for her and elegantly steps in. “That’s my genes, and nothing to do with you.”

“Touché.”

* * *

 

The Janitor is walking around with an old man Stiles hasn’t seen before, in a lab coat, pointing at various rooms and describing them. “This is where we train the monkeys to give flu shots, and over there I once performed a brain transplant.”

Stiles edges closer, scowling. “Are you telling this guy you’re a _doctor?_ ”

The Janitor spins around with a satisfied look on his face. “Good, here’s another doctor. I don’t believe I know your name,” he says holding a hand out.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles splutters, “Your entire life has revolved around making mine hell for the past four years!”

“This is my son, Juan,” The Janitor says with a look of pride. He’s scarily committed, like he _actually_ believes it. Stiles looks at the man and frowns. He has to be at least in his late eighties

“Your _son_?”

“Dad?” the old man croaks. “Why is the doctor yelling?”

“He’s probably just feeling threatened, son. We’re in a very competitive field and my reputation precedes me.”

“This man is _not_ your son!” Stiles exclaims, and Dr Deaton, appearing from nowhere, lays a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Juan, is this man upsetting you?”

“How many people are in on this? This guy’s old enough to be _his_ grandfather!”

“This is highly unprofessional, Stilinski,” Deaton says, “Even for you.”

“He’s a _jan-i-tor!_ ” Stiles enunciates. “He probably stole this poor guy from the geriatric ward.”

“Juan is fourteen.”

Deaton folds his arms, and the old man shrinks behind The Janitor’s frame, looking at Stiles in fear.

“I think I’m going to have to take this up with human resources,” he says disapprovingly. “Poking fun at people for aging disorders won’t stand.”

“Go ahead!” Stiles yells. “While you’re there, ask to see his employee file, because him? _Not_ a medical professional!”

“Mr Greenberg can vouch for me,” The Janitor says.

“That’s because he’s terrified of you.”

“We’re friends. Just yesterday I spent my free afternoon improving his shoes.”

“You were supposed to be _working_. We had a puke puddle in radiology that people started seeing religious figures in.”

“Slanderous,” The Janitor says intensely. “Tell him, Greenberg.”

“THIS RUUUuuuuules!” Greenberg shouts, his voice fading into nothing as he skates by them on tiny wheels affixed to the bottom of his shoes.

Stiles is left pointing into the air as Deaton walks off, shaking his head, and he fumbles for something to say before being shoved into a closet by, who turns out to be, Lydia.

“Strippers,” she says without preamble. Stiles blinks at her and tries to catch up, but she sighs and explains. “Are you hiring a stripper for Scott’s bachelor party?”

“ _Oh_ ,” he sighs. “No, strippers make him sad. He talked to one once and she was the single mom of an only son, and now every time he meets a stripper he tries to rescue them.”

Lydia cocks her head. “Stripping is a highly lucrative profession. It’s not a last resort for everyone,” she says in annoyance.

“Tell that to Scott. I don’t really care since I’m banging literally the hottest human being in existence, and other peoples’ naked asses don’t interest me anymore.”

“And people say Scott and Allison are disgustingly infatuated.”

“They do?” Stiles snaps offendedly, “Who says that?”

“Never mind,” she sighs. “Great, now I’m gonna have to come up with more entertainment for the party, because Allison won’t want a stripper if Scott isn’t having one.”

“I know the number for a great clown agency.”

“Are you _five?_ ”

“I’m sure he could do it without pants or something.”

“Mmm, clown crotch. One of my top three types of crotch.”

Stiles gives her a betrayed frown. “You’re mean when you’re stressed.”

“Hello?” Someone knocks on the closet door. “Why is this door locked?”

“For once. not sexual reasons!” Stiles calls out, strangely proud of himself.

Lydia rolls her eyes and opens it, hesitating. It’s some guy Stiles vaguely recognizes.

“You,” she says, “Does your little band take bookings?”

Ah, it’s one of Greenberg’s rap crew. Stiles fish-faces when he realizes where she’s going with this. “Lydia, no.”

“I’m desperate,” she hisses.

The man frowns, “Um.”

“I’ll let you see my bra...”

“We’re free whenever. You can even have an exclusive performance of our Nicki Minaj set, free of charge,” the guy says, smiling at her dreamily.

“You’re disgusting, dude.”

The man scowls at him. “You try living in the shadow of Greenberg, he gets pick of the groupies.” He smiles at Lydia. “Miss, it would be an honor.”

“Wonderful,” Lydia smiles, and turns to Stiles with a grin. “Told you stripping was lucrative.”

* * *

 

Having a parent around makes everyone a little nostalgic for their own families. Stiles revels in her attempts to tame the bird’s nest on his head, and Derek stumbles his way adorably through a conversation with her. He gets a subtle, approving nod behind his back before Scott drags his mother away to show her off to someone else.

“She reminds me of my mom,” Derek says quietly when she’s gone. Stiles swallows his bit of sandwich hard enough to make his eyes water, because Derek is _sharing._

“What was she like?”

Derek contemplates for a moment. “A lot like Laura. Great bullshit detector. I was convinced she had my phone tapped when I was in high school because she seemed to know everything without being told.”

“She was a doctor too, right?” Stiles has heard the tragic story of Dr and Dr Hale losing their lives in an emergency helicopter crash while Derek was still pre-med and Laura had barely graduated. “She must have been happy about your career choices.”

Derek smiles sadly. “She never forced me, but made it pretty clear I’d made the right decision.” He turns over the cold pasta in his bowl thoughtfully. “She’d have liked you.”

Stiles swallows. The more time he spends around Derek like this, the more he realizes that he’s less of an enigma, more of a layered, guarded person who just needs the right openings with the right people to feel like he can talk to them.

“I hope so.”

“Laura does, that’s almost as good.”

“Your sister still terrifies me.”

“I used to terrify you,” Derek points out. He has a spot of sauce on the side of his mouth that probably shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

“Mainly because you were so intimidatingly attractive.”

Derek’s ears flush a hypnotic shade of pink, and he nudges his foot against Stiles under the desk. The desk in his _office_ , because he’s Co-Chief resident now.

“I warned you about that.”

“You said ‘not around other people’. We have the office to ourselves because Lydia insists I keep corrupting it with my man-stank.”

“I think she just wants her own place,” Derek smirks. “Laura’s been hinting about it - she’s pretty smitten.”

“Those two kind of make sense,” Stiles muses. “It’s nice to see Lydia not punching below her weight for once.”

“Are you saying my sister’s hot?”

Stiles cocks a brow at him. “She’s like a female version of _you_. If I wasn’t so fucking gone on you already, I might have developed a crush.”

“I’ll just have to keep you interested, then,” Derek tells him, leaning across the space to give him a kiss that tangs of like sweet chili with an afterthought of coffee.

“Mmnh,” Stiles says dreamily, “I can feel myself getting distracted. Do that again, maybe without pants.”

“You keep trying to make everything without pants. I’m starting to worry about your patients.”

“My patients probably wouldn’t like it if I took my pants off. You, however, seem to approve.”

Derek nods seriously, getting all up close and husky. “That is something I approve of.”

“And I’ve always been a little desperate for you approval..”

Before Stiles can really think about it, they have the desk pushed up against the door, and Stiles is propped up on it, biting on his fist while Derek gets his tongue intimately acquainted with the underside of his dick. He’s never had this level of _have to have you now_ with someone he’s dated, but it’s like ten minutes in Derek’s company and he has to be touching him with some part of his body, or he feels like he’ll crumple into a pile of empty scrubs.

And Derek just-- he _excels_ at giving head. Like everything else in his life, he gets this super-focused look on his face and just has at it, nuzzling into the hairs at the base of Stiles’ dick before letting it sit on his tongue until Stiles is trying not to thrust into his mouth. He puts a thumb on each of Stiles’ hipbones and holds him still as he edges him further in, his dumb smirky face watching the urgent jerks of Stiles’ chest as he coaches himself to breathe.

“I think I’m going blind,” Stiles groans, because Derek looking up at him while he sucks on his dick is probably the greatest image ever known to mankind. Stiles’ hand slips and he sends a cupful of pens flying, and the laptop starts making weird error sounds where his thigh’s hitting the keyboard, but all his brain has the wherewithal to deal with right now is the way Derek’s making satisfied little noises like the taste of Stiles in his mouth is the best thing he’s ever had in there.

The eye contact is intense. Stiles rakes his hands into Derek’s hair - he’s stopped wearing product in it so much because Stiles can’t seem to keep his hands out of it - and his world revolves around arresting green-brown-something eyes for unending, perfect moments.

Banging on the door, _right_ as Stiles’ orgasm crackles through him seems like some fucked-up climax to the moment. He sucks in shocked breaths through his fingers, trying desperately not to make a sound.

“Seriously? That’s it!” Lydia shouts through the wood. “I’m getting my own office!”

Stiles looks down and grins, because Derek’s laughing so hard into his thigh he can’t even breathe. He’s probably going to have to buy an apology cookie later.

So worth it.

* * *

 

“ _Someone_ paged for a surgical consult. Asked for me specifically. No big.”

Derek scowls. “Well it wasn’t anyone here, so you can go.”

Scott folds his arms. “Uh, yeah you did. ”

“I really didn’t.”

Scott’s face softens. “Dude, it’s okay to need people,” he says, “And right now it looks like you need me, so suck it up.”

Derek glances at Stiles suspiciously, and he looks innocent as fuck. “ _I_ didn’t page you--”

“No, I did,” Allison cuts in, exiting the patient’s room and stroking her hand down Scott’s back. “Hey,” she grins.

“Hey Future Wifey,” he beams, nuzzling into her hair.

“Scott.”

He pulls back abruptly. “Fine, I’ll stop saying Wifey. How about ‘Boo’, can we boo?”

“Can you _go?_ ” Derek grunts, and Stiles reaches out to pinch his ass. He turns around and glares at him. “This guy’s like you without the garnish of asshole. He’s insufferable.”

“He’s my fiance,” Allison says, “And, as _you_ said that night you kept me out on the roof bitching about how cute and annoying Stiles is, the best surgical resident in the hospital.”

Scott’s entire being puffs up and he leans against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles.

“ _Really_?” he drawls, giving Derek a slow smile.

“And, you, Derek Hale, are my oldest friend. You’re gonna be in my life forever, and so is he, so you need to hurry up and like each other already, because I’m sick of this weird tension.”

“Uh, also?” Stiles pipes up. “Kind of the love of my life. And I really like you too, Derek.”

Derek throws him a withering look that Stiles breaks with a kiss to his cheek and whispers, “Let the sunshine into your heart.”

Derek stares at him for a beat before turning back to Scott. He sighs, holding out a hand toward the room. “This lady went dead in the eyes when I mentioned the possibility of more drugs...” he starts, and Scott opens the door, nodding and wearing his Super Serious Surgeon face.

Stiles grabs Allison’s hand and kisses it. “You’re a goddess,” he tells her, and she smiles.

“It was actually Melissa’s idea. Apparently it’s an old nurse trick for when departments are at loggerheads.”

“Scott has no idea what his life’s going to be like with you two, does he?” Stiles muses.

Allison lifts a shoulder. “You mean blessed?”

* * *

 

“Pretty great job, surprisingly, on my carpal tunnel patient.” Stiles looks up. “Dr Whittemore. Jackson?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. High five for the ability to give high fives.” He holds up a limp hand and Stiles stares at it in front of him. Jackson doesn’t seem to notice he didn’t slap their palms together before he snaps his fingers.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, genuinely concerned.

“...yeah,” Jackson says unconvincingly. “No.. I, uh, I went to this club last night.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Dude, everyone has the right to explore what gets them off as long as they’re not hurting anyone, but I’d rather not know about it, kay?”

“It was him. It was _definitely_ him,” Jackson mutters, barely paying attention.

“Okay, what?” Stiles leans back and shakes his head. “No, I don’t wanna know--”

Jackson swivels around to look at him, his eyes lost to past trauma. “Chief Hale.”

Stiles gives up trying to avoid getting his interest piqued and slumps down on the nearest chair. “What was?”

“They play music videos on the big screen at this club, right? And I’m there, on the hunt, waiting to see the latest piece of prime rump I get to take home--”

“Skip ahead,” Stiles interrupts, twirling his finger around.

“There’s this 90s Euro-pop song playing, and I’ve never seen the video, but I’m doin’ a shot so it’s kind of in my eye line. And there he is.”

“In the video?”

“Chief Hale.”

“Chief Hale is in a music video?”

“It was _his_ music video.”

Stiles stares for a long moment, not quite sure whether to believe it, but thankfully he lives in an age where everyone carries powerful computers in their pocket. He pulls his phone out.

“I gotta see this. What’s the song?”

Jackson pulls the phone away from him and types, turning the screen back with a haunted look on his face. The video starts on a moodily-lit, atmospheric street. It’s post apocalyptic. There are starved-looking cats and debris in the corners of the shot, and then the beat starts. It’s that generic brand of 1990s house that just loops and never goes anywhere.

Then, out of the shadows, in a string vest and enough eyeliner to upset a member of The Cure, walks Peter Hale.

Stiles gapes. He’s wearing an ankle-length coat and _are those chaps?_ When he starts to perform, it’s more spoken-word than anything that could be considered actual singing or even rap, and _oh god, there’s a dance interlude._

This might be the greatest thing that’s ever happened in Stiles’ life, and he came all over Derek Hale’s face this morning.

“Jackson, I’ll never spread rumors that you have gonorrhea ever again,” he says solemnly, squeezing him on the shoulder.

Jackson frowns. “That makes the amount of times I got laid last month even more impressive.”

“Oh, you’re still a complete stain of a person,” Stiles says, “But I think I might love you a little bit.”

“Alright, calm down. Maybe if I pretended you were Sigourney Weaver.”

“For the last time, I do _not_ look like Sigourney Weaver.”

“It’s the eyes.”

Stiles face-palms. “Can we just enjoy the moment, here? Then we’ll decide what we’ll do with this information.”

“What information?” They both startle when Laura appears over them, narrowing her eyes. “Are you two the ones offering to diagnose suspicious growths via Snapchat?”

Stiles slumps. “No, that was The Janitor, I’m gonna have to delete my account again.” He holds the phone to his chest and looks up at her. “It’s nothing.”

Laura tilts her head. “Didn’t my brother ever tell you that lying to me gets you nothing but bruised nipples?”

“ _You’re_ the one responsible for that? I was worried he had a fetish he was afraid to bring up. I stayed up until 3am researching kink negotiation.”

“The phone, Stiles.”

He holds it in a death-grip until she honest-to god _bites_ his hand, and the look on her face after she hits play is that of someone who has had their entire life view altered.

“That...”

“I know,” Stiles says awkwardly.

“That _bastard_! He told us he was working with Doctors Without Borders! I’m going to _ruin_ him.” She slams the phone down on the desk and marches off with murder in her walk, and Stiles and Jackson sit there in shock as the music continues to play.

“Is his...” Stiles says, disturbed, “Did that say his stage name is _Alpha Pedro?_ ”

* * *

 

Stiles checks his reflection again and scurries out of the bathroom. “Would you want to put your dick in my mouth and then ask me to sleep over?”

Allison and Lydia share a look and, weirdly synchronized, gesture to their crotches.

“Pretend you _have_ dicks.”

“Stiles, you look fine,” Allison smiles. “Stop freaking out.”

“I look ’fine?’” Stiles exclaims, “FINE? Have you _seen_ who I’m sleeping with? No, wait, _dating_ now, because this is a _date_ where I’m going to his _apartment_ and hopefully having slow, intense, eye-contact-filled commitment sex.” He swallows and takes another breath. “I can’t look ‘fine’, I have to look good enough that he wants to do me in the doorway!”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “You need alcohol.” She holds out her wine glass and Stiles makes grabby-hands at it before downing the entire thing.

He winces. “‘S good.”

“It’s on the shortlist for the wedding,” Allison says contentedly, making a little note on the legal pad in front of her.

“Haven’t you guys been testing wine for like four months?” he frowns.

“We’re thorough,” Lydia says primly, re-filling her glass. “We’ve narrowed it down to fourteen varieties, maybe ten by the time Scott gets back from dinner with his mom. Why are you Stiles-ing?”

“Stop using my name as a verb,” he says, pulling off his tie. Too formal.

“Stiles,” Allison coaxes.

“This is our first _date_ date. First time I’ve been to his apartment to stay over, first time I’ve been there since... you know.” _That time Derek spent a week drinking himself into oblivion._ “I just want it to go perfectly.”

“Derek’s just as nervous as you are,” Allison soothes. “Trust me.”

He scrunches his face up. “Why? All he has to do is smile at me and I get light-headed. He can’t possibly be this nervous.”

“He’s been bookmarking recipes since you made the date, and he’s sent me three selfies since I got here with different outfits on.”

Stiles feels his insides melting into goo. Derek is serious about this. _Selfie-_ serious. Oh my _god_.

“I think you broke him,” Lydia stage-whispers, grinning behind her glass.

“Shut up,” he retorts when he snaps out of it, then glances at the clock on the oven. “Shit, is that the time?!”

“Take one of the extra bottles of white,” Allison says, holding one out. “Derek’s making risotto.”

He kind of wants to hug the hood of his jeep when it makes it all away to the complex where Derek lives without dying, but he’s pretty sure one of his apartment windows faces out into the parking lot, and he’s trying to bring his a-game tonight.

Derek is barefoot when he answers the door, wearing worn chinos and a shirt that looks like it was tailored by angels. He’s got a happy little set to his mouth when he says _Hey_ and lays his hand gently on Stiles’ jaw when he leans in for a kiss. It’s all very normal-people-ish. Stiles is floundering.

“I brought wine,” he says needlessly, “I have no idea if it’s any good.”

“Thank you. Open it up?” He digs around in a drawer and produces a corkscrew. Stiles’ hands are slippery on the bottle and he laughs nervously when it takes him a couple of attempts to open the damn thing.

Derek has a vinyl player humming softly in the background, and Stiles takes his glass over as he looks through the records, smiling at the fact that Derek is a huge hipster.

“Looking for something in particular?” he asks, wiping his hands on a towel. “Dinner will be another few minutes. I... got sidetracked.”

Stiles grins because _selfies_ and says, “I’m trying to find blackmail material. C’mon man, don’t you have any Aqua?”

“I’m not sure if they released Barbie Girl on vinyl.”

“Well you’d know,” he grumbles, taking a sip. “This wine is kind of rank.”

“Kind of is,” Derek agrees, yet takes another sip of his own glass.

“Nervous about something?” Stiles asks, abandoning the records to step closer. He can still smell the remnants of the shower Derek took recently wafting through the apartment, and everything’s so much tidier than the last time he came.

“Nope,” Derek says easily. “I’ve seen you eat leftover tacos you don’t know the origin of, so you’ll probably like whatever I make you.”

“Who said I was talking about the cooking?”

Derek lifts a shoulder. “I feel just about as halfway-insane as I always do around you, so I’m kind of used to it.”

“You’re a smooth fucker, Hale, you know that?”

Derek grins, getting up close. “I suspected.”

Dinner is pretty phenomenal, even if Derek spends the first five minutes grumbling that the rice is over-cooked because Stiles felt the need to make out for a half hour. In Stiles’ defense, he chose to wear those pants, so it’s his own fault.

“So you’re just a complete perfectionist in pretty much everything, right?” Stiles teases, tracing his bread around the bowl to mop up the sauce. His head is swimming a little with wine and Derek, but he feels pretty fucking amazing right now.

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Not at all, Perfect is as perfect does.”

Derek huffs. “I’m not perfect, Stiles.”

“Of course not - you’re stubborn as fuck and you make too many assumptions about people, but I can work with it.”

“Says the guy who’s persistent to the point of madness and eats everything without silverware,” Derek smirks, cocking a brow.

“Better than inspecting every bite of food that goes into your mouth. And what’s with the the teeth-grinding? Your dentist must _love_ you.”

“Almost as much as yours. Most people grow out of the putting-everything-in-your-mouth stage by the time they can form full sentences.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining yesterday in your office,” Stiles grins, and Derek bites his lip and looks away.

“That was your idea, if I remember correctly.”

“It was a good one - I have a lot of those.” he says breathily, hooking his toes around Derek’s ankle. The guy licks his lips and stares down at his plate in contemplation.

“I made dessert, but...” Stiles creeps his socked foot a little further up his calf, and Derek lets out a shaky little sigh, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. “I’m kind of having a hard time remembering why right now.” His eyes flick up to Stiles. “And if you make a joke out of _hard_ I’m throwing you out.”

“I’m hurt,” Stiles says in mock-offense. “My sense of humor is way beyond dick jokes.” Derek raises a brow. “Shut up. I’m trying to impress you.”

His face softens. “You’ve already done that, believe me.”

Stiles also can’t be blamed for the fact that he puts his hand all the way in his bowl when he launches across the table to kiss Derek’s face off.

Derek snorts against his mouth until Stiles wipes sauce all the way down the side of his face, and after that it’s a chase through the apartment, Stiles seeing rooms he’s never been in before, checking each door until he finds one with Derek’s bed in it. Perfect.

Stiles stops dead and let’s Derek grab him, stumbling forward as he looks up and around the room. “Well well we-hell,” he snorts, “I expected black silk and a four-poster.”

“Oh yeah?” Derek asks distractedly, nibbling at his neck. “Why’s that?”

“You were always naked on a bed of silk when I imagined seeing your bedroom. I’m kind of disappointed.”

In reality, it’s a lot of dark wood and earthy tones, with pictures of family on the walls and gym equipment in one corner. There’s some paperwork neatly stacked on the bedside table, and a TV mounted on the wall opposite the headboard. If Stiles had really thought about it, this is exactly what Derek’s room would look like.

“Sorry about that,” Derek says, not sounding sorry at all. His hand creeps up Stiles’ belly underneath his shirt, and he’s leaving little nips on his neck with his teeth that are redirecting all blood flow from Stiles’ legs to elsewhere.

“I’m forgiving you already,” he says, grabbing the hand that’s splayed over his chest and leading Derek to the bed. “As long as we get to have boring couple's sex to finish off the evening.” He scoots back on the bed and Derek starts to crawl over him.

“ _Boring?_ ” he quotes.

“I’ve been single for such a long time, I liked to comfort myself with the idea that all couples were having boring, unfulfilling sex.”

Derek studies him and then leans in to kiss him softly, like he’s got all the time in the world. “And is that what we are? A couple?” he pauses to say against his mouth.

“That’s what I’ve been telling everyone,” Stiles jokes, running a hand down the ridges of his back. How can someone feel so fucking good through _clothes?_ “It’d be pretty embarrassing if it wasn’t true. I put down a deposit on a tandem bike ride next Sunday.”

Derek huffs and starts deepening the kisses, holding his weight over Stiles and boxing him in like he’s a particularly interesting catch he’s not letting out of his sight.

“I thought you’d talk less....when I could shut you up by kissing you...but if anything, I think it’s more,” Derek tells Stiles’ throat between tastes.

“I’m sure there’s a trick to it,” Stiles says, wedging his hands down the back of Derek’s pants to hold him in place.

He kneads his hips against him. Derek’s hard already, and Stiles grins, doing it again and again because he keeps making these involuntary noises every time. When Derek gets worked up enough, when he’s dragging his lips across Stiles’ cheek and Stiles is so turned-on he feels like he might be dying a little bit, Stiles smacks his ass lightly. Derek stops to give him an affronted look, and he uses the chance to shuffle back, flip on to his knees and look around himself.

“Let’s see if we can find the key to my silence...” he murmurs teasingly.

He starts rifling through the drawers by the bed, aware of Derek, still in his place, watching him in mild bafflement. Stiles can’t stop himself breaking out into a grin when he gets his prize, and he sticks the condom in his mouth, furthering his quest for lube. So someone was pretty confident they were getting laid tonight...

Derek, right then, comes back to himself and grabs him around the middle to turn him around. He rolls his eyes when Stiles jerks his brows twice, condom still in his mouth.

“You could have just asked,” Derek grouses without heat, pulling it out and tossing it on the bed. He presses Stiles back down and gets right back to it, rasping his chin across his throat with kisses.

“Yeah, but I feel like I really earned it now, you know?” Stiles says victoriously, returning each of Derek’s lazy little thrusts with a sigh.

It turns out that the trick to shutting Stiles up longer than ten seconds is Derek, naked on top of him, encouraging Stiles’ hand down the cleft of his ass. He stares at Stiles with an expression of hopeful need, and there’s a second where Stiles just shorts out. Then, with the same level of careful enthusiasm he shows everything, he’s got Derek taking one of his lubed-up fingers, working up to two, writhing back and flushing all the way down his chest.

When Stiles finds his voice again, it’s only to whisper praise and encouragement, telling Derek how much he’s driving Stiles insane, how perfect he is, how great he’s going to feel. His brain stays online just long enough to get the condom on, but he loses his words once more when Derek manhandles him against the pillows, positioning him back so he can start sinking down on Stiles’ cock, breathing slowly and leaning on the headboard for balance. They pause for long moments, just drinking in the sensation of being together like the for the first time.

Slowly and experimentally, Derek circles his hips a little, cursing soft and low at the feeling. It's monumental. Ruinous. Indescribable.

When those movements become rhythmic, Stiles lifts up to meet every grind, clutching at Derek’s sides and returning each desperate, panting kiss he’s offered. Derek looks down at him, and the expression in his eyes is cracked open and raw, making Stiles surge up until they’re face to face, so he can hold his head in place to kiss him. He just really needs to make him feel good.

Stiles joked about how intense it would be, how real it would all seem after tonight, but he can’t figure out how he ever made light of how he’s feeling right now. How having Derek surrounding him and holding him was ever something less than extraordinary.

Derek’s cock leaks between them, and Stiles keeps him on the edge with a stern grip on his thighs. Looking right in Derek’s eyes, he keeps the pace slow and teasing until Derek’s legs are shuddering, and he relents. It’s a thrill when he can take hold of those strong hips like nothing, flipping them both over to take in the sight of Derek laid out against the sheets instead. He folds one of Derek’s knees against his chest, changing the angle again and watches as his brows jump like he’s lost control of his expressions. Like he’s lost in Stiles inside of him, over him. It’s the most gorgeous he’s ever looked.

Finally, _finally_ he gets a hand around his neglected cock and jerks it, sucking in tight breaths at the way Derek contracts on impulse with the stimulation. He works him up, up, until Derek, so usually composed and succinct and bridled, is a mess, coming all over himself in hot little spurts, enveloping Stiles’ dick in tight pulsations.

Stiles lets go after that. He drives into him again and again, muffling himself on the skin of Derek’s shoulder. Derek holds his head close, kissing him and coaxing him until Stiles’ body goes shock-rigid and he falls off that edge, emptying himself until he’s spent.

“Hngh,” he tells the hairs on Derek’s chest. They’re damp with a combination of the heat of Stiles’ breath and the sweat on Derek’s skin, but he can’t find it in him to move when he realizes he can feel his heart thudding against his cheek.

“Me too,” Derek says, his chest rumbling with a laugh.

“Dunno ‘bout you, but I could really go for that dessert right about now,” he says when they’ve cleaned up, tracing his fingers up and down Derek’s back, kissing him here and there as the sweat cools on his skin.

“Was that a hint, or a demand?”

“I’m your guest,” Stiles smirks and sits back, pulling the covers around himself. Derek’s sheets must be made of fucking unicorn tails or something. “You’re supposed to be hospitable, or I might not come back.”

“When did I imply I wanted you to leave?” Derek says, scooting from under the blankets to the edge and pressing a kiss to his hair.

“Don’t write checks with your mouth your ass can’t cash, Hale,” he grins when Derek jogs off, buck-ass-naked, out of the room. His head appears back at the door instantly, all tousled hair and sex-drunk.

“Who said I was?” he says, and Stiles kind of has to bury his face in the pillow.

* * *

 

“I think I befriended a raccoon,” Stiles says in shock, widening his eyes before realizing, _ow that fucking hurts,_ and groaning.

“You did. You called him Edgar,” Scott grunts. He makes a batting motion at his phone and gives up. “I think I have pictures.”

“Dude, the one rule was no pictures. It’s like you’ve never been to a bachelor party before.”

“I smell _so bad._ ”

“That would be the puke. Jackson’s, not yours.”

“He has such shitty aim,” Scott complains. “I think Isaac had fun, though.”

“Yeah. Who knew that beanpole could out-drink all of us?”

“Except Derek.”

Stiles scowls. “Derek is at _work_ right now. He stopped drinking at like ten.”

“‘s that why he wouldn’t let you bring him into the bathroom?”

“Yeah. Got all moral and protective on me.” Stiles closes one eye. “It was probably a good idea, I tried to challenge some old lady to a dance-off right after that.”

“That was Boyd’s grandmother. She probably would have beat you. ”

“True.”

They let out a synchronized sigh, and Scott nudges his foot against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Hey, thanks for throwing me an awesome bachelor party,” he says. “I can’t lift my head, but I love you, man.”

Stiles grins and clutches his toes. “Love you too.”

There’s silence. “It’s gonna suck not living together anymore.”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna have a wife. Who happens to be _Allison_ , so you’re not gonna miss me a that much.”

“I’ll still miss you. You know you can stay as long as you want. I don’t even know why you’re the one that’s moving out.”

Stiles shrugs at the ceiling. “It just makes sense. And you guys deserve your space.”

“You’re still gonna come over all the time though, right?”

“Definitely. I’m keeping my key and everything.”

“Good. And who knows, maybe you and Derek will--”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence,” Stiles interrupts, holding a finger up to the air. “It’s going freakishly well between us. _Too_ well.”

“Sometimes good things happen, you know.”

“Not _this_ good. God, Scott, he’s like, ridiculously perfect. I know he comes across as kind of a dick, but I think kind of _like_ that...”

“I know,” Scott replies. Stiles can hear the grin in his voice. “You told me all of this last night. In front of him.”

“Oh god.”

“He seemed pretty happy about it,” Scott snorts, and then, “I like him. We had a talk.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Even I get to have secrets from you sometimes.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Okay. Just so long as you didn’t tell him about Cleveland.”

“Dude. Nobody gets to know about Cleveland. Ever.”

“Keep it that way.”

Stiles just lays there for a moment, taking stock of how great things are right now. Sure, he feels like a sudden movement and his brain might fall out his ears and Scott smells like someone regurgitated him, but other than that... everything’s comin’ up Stiles.

“Bro?”

“Yeah Scott?”

“You think we’re okay enough to go inside the apartment now? The lady next door let her cat lick my face this morning.”

Stiles turns his head slowly to their door. The harsh lights of the corridor are making his eyes vibrate, the carpet’s rumpled where he and Scott gave up and collapsed last night, and it seems like the distance is getting greater and greater as if he’s in some horror movie.

“Maybe ten more minutes?” he hedges, and Scott groans again.

* * *

 

“Son. I know you’ve got a quota to fill, but can I at least put my bag down?”

“You smell just like I remember,” Stiles sighs before pulling back. “You should move here. Cheryl could get a job, and you’re almost retirement age anyway--”

“Careful.”

He shoots his dad a solemn look. “A boy needs his father.”

“My _boy_ is twenty-eight years old and a medical resident at one of the state’s foremost teaching hospitals.”

“That kind of sounds like you’ve been saying it a lot,” Stiles notices, and his dad gives him one of those proud dad smiles that make him feel like he could bench-press a Mack truck.

“I tell people who ask. Or even if they don’t ask.”

“And you weren’t even sure I’d finish high school.”

“Oh, I was sure of it. I just wasn’t sure you’d do it without some kind of criminal record.”

Stiles hugs him again, not caring even the tiniest bit that they’re standing in the middle of his workplace.

“I missed you. It’s so not fair that you showed up a half-day early.” He straightens up and tries to look pissed, but his _dad_ is here, and he can’t even pretend. “Will you be okay to hang out for a while? I’ll just go finish up and then we can go grab some eats.”

“As long as wherever you’re taking me has the words ‘steak’ or ‘grill ’somewhere in the title.”

Stiles cocks his head condescendingly. “So persistent. I love that you never stop trying.”

Everything seems to be taking thirty times longer when he knows his dad is waiting for him, that he’ll get to spend long-overdue time with him and show him around a little. Eventually, Stiles is in civilian clothes and jogging back to the hospital foyer, only to skid to a halt. Derek is here.

Derek is here, and he appears to be stuck in some kind of stand-off... with Stiles’ _dad._

“Not sure who you think you are, kid, but manners don’t cost anything, and yours stink.”

“Some of us are busy, since we’re still of age to actually contribute to society and all, and I have a transplant patient about to come through this way, so if you wouldn’t mind _kindly_ making room, _sir..._ ”

“Ah-hah,” Stiles splutters, stopping in front of them both with wide eyes. “Please, for the love of god, don’t finish that sentence!”

Derek turns to him with a irritated-and-confused-possibly-sleepy look, while his dad continues to bore into the side of Derek’s head with his eyes.

“I see you guys have met, and I... really wanted to be here when that happened for the first time...”

Derek frowns, while Dad says, “Stiles?”

“This is Derek?” Stiles announces, well, winces, really. “Residency Director of the hospital you’re standing in, Doctor of Internal Medicine... also kind of my boyfriend.” He turns to Derek. “Derek, meet Sheriff John Stilinski. My dad.”

From the look on his face, it’s like a car crash is happening right inside Derek’s head. Stiles can even imagine hearing the noise because, for one stretched-out, horrific moment, that gorgeous face just kind of... shuts down. Dad folds his arms and starts re-assessing Derek all over again, to the point where Stiles wishes he wore a lab-coat so he could hide him or something.

“Oh, god,” Derek mutters at last and turns back to his dad with a look of contrition. “I, uh-- it’s nice to meet you, Mr-- Sheriff... Stiles talks about you a lot. ” He visibly swallows. “He’s been really happy all week because of your arrival. An arrival I didn’t think was happening until _tonight._ ” He looks at Stiles, betrayed, and all Stiles can do is shrug.

“Surprise?”

“I caught an earlier flight,” Dad supplies evenly. “Which is fortunate, since I got such a great insight into how his new boyfriend treats people he doesn’t know on a day-to-day basis. Very interesting.”

“Derek’s under a lot of pressure right now, since one of his long-term patients might have finally been bumped to the top of the transplant list--”

“Dr Hale?” a nurse interrupts. “Ambulance is here.”

Derek nods at her, but looks back to Stiles’ dad, conflicted. “I apologize, sir, it’s not an excuse for how I--”

“Dr Hale, we need you right away!”

“Yes! Okay! Fuck!” he calls out, and winces, because he just did it again. He grinds his teeth until Stiles lays a hand on his arm.

“Go, we can try this again later,” he tells him quietly, and Derek searches his face, offers a curt nod.

“I’ll call you,” he promises, and abortively leans forward to kiss Stiles before seeming to think better of it and clapping him on the shoulder when he sees Dad is watching. He jogs off, looking back once, and Stiles spins around with one eye closed. Dad does not look impressed.

“I think that went well!” he tries. Dad shifts his gaze from Derek’s back over to Stiles again, and he raises a brow. Stiles clasps his hands together. “How does a striploin sound? I’m buying.”

* * *

 

“It’s not funny.”

Scott gives up and starts shaking with laughter, throwing his head back until he’s practically howling.

“Oh man,” he giggles. “Of all days to be an asshole.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I spent lunch recounting every case of Derek saving little kids and old people’s lives. It took _forever._ ”

“So what does your dad say?”

“I think he’s willing to let Derek have another shot at a first impression, only because I wouldn’t let it go...but my dad has a cop’s gut - more often than not when he has an instinct about someone, he doesn’t ignore it.”

“Plus there’s the fact that when he walks through your home town, he’s like a celebrity that also can remember each person’s name. He’s nice to _everyone._ ”

“Which is why he has no tolerance for rudeness. Oh god.” Stiles puts a cushion over his face and groans, until the vibration of his phone snaps him out of it.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says when he answers. “I’m so-- He hates me.”

“My dad doesn’t hate anyone,” Stiles replies. “He kind of thinks you’re a dick, though.”

“I _was_ a dick. God, my first words to your father were ‘move it’.”

“I attempted damage control...I’m not totally sure it worked, but we’ll see.”

“You didn’t sing my praises all through dinner, did you?”

“Of course I did.”

The line crackles as Derek lets out a breath. “Stiles, now he’s gonna think I’ve brainwashed you or something. You only ever talk about Scott like that.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he glances over at his bro, who’s making him the world’s best lasagna because it happens to have Pringles instead of pasta as the top layer. “Shit, you’re right.”

“What can I do?”

Stiles thinks for a moment. The wedding is tomorrow. Allison is staying at Lydia’s so they can hug and cry in peace before the ceremony - also the tradition thing - and Stiles’ number one responsibility is getting Scott to that church. He doesn’t want to have to worry about anything else.

“Can you pick him and Cheryl up tomorrow and bring them to the wedding?”

“Would he be alright with that? He probably wants to get a cab.”

“Do you wanna fix this or not?”

A sigh. “Okay, but make sure he knows so that they have a chance to back out.”

“Will do. You just have to be an extra charm-- wait, no.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t lay it on too thick or he’ll see right through it. Just.. I don’t know, find a common interest. Trade anecdotes. You’re gonna be in the car for like an hour.”

“So far our only common interest is you.”

“That’s a subject to be avoided,” Stiles says abruptly. “Under no circumstances bring up how we spent last weekend. And if he starts talking about me and junior science club, turn up the radio.”

“What _about_ you and science club?”

“Don’t ask ridiculous questions, Derek!” Stiles shouts, and then hangs up.

* * *

 

The ring is in his pocket, Scott looks like he’s being powered by literal sunbeams, Lydia says ETA for the bride is six minutes, and the church is almost full. Stiles paces around, greeting people and making sure Scott’s little cousin Sammy isn’t trying to take his pants off again, when his dad walks in right in front of Derek.

Derek, who is arm-in-arm with Cheryl, and they’re _laughing._ Stiles frowns across the pews at his father, who twists his mouth in a _don’t ask_ kind of way. Well _fuck._

“What if she changed her mind,” Scott says behind him. Stiles spins. He’s pale and haunted, and yeah, Stiles was wondering when the freak-out would kick in, but he’d prefer if it wasn’t five minutes before the ceremony.

“Dude, she’s literally on the way here. Lydia’s been texting me updates since they got out of the hair salon. I’ve even got Isaac on look-out because I think he’s a terrible choice for a groomsman and I need him away from us.”

“Okay, but are you _sure?_ ”

“Dude.”

“Yeah, I know,” Scott says remorsefully. “But there’s no way I’m this lucky. I mean _no way._ ”

“You told me yourself, sometimes good things just happen,” Stiles says, glancing to where his parents are taking their seats on the groom’s side behind him, and Derek breaks away to jog over to Allison’s side, sending a soft smile his way. “Bro, you’re literally the best person I know. You’ve made me better, and the only person that the universe produced who’s good enough for you just happened to be working at the hospital where we interned. Sometimes, _good things just happen._ ”

“I’m gonna make her so happy, dude,” Scott says, “I swear to god, I’m gonna try every day.”

“I know you will.” Stiles smiles, just noticing that Isaac has come back in, and Greenberg and his rap crew are standing up to face the door. “You ready?”

The band starts an acapella version of _Angel of Mine_ , with shockingly beautiful voices, and the doors to the church start to open. Little Sammy toddles up the carpet in front of Allison’s cousin. Lydia follows in a floor-length gown, and grins at Stiles and Scott before winking at Laura in the congregation. Then, at last, Allison appears. Scott’s face does this thing where he looks like he might achieve levitation through sheer power of love, and even Allison’s dad looks about ready to burst.

Scott turns to Stiles and nods. “I’m ready.”

* * *

 

Even Stiles feels like he’s soaring on rainbows right now, and he’s just been having his picture taken for 45 minutes. His dad claps a hand on his shoulder outside the reception hall, smiling happily. Dad’s a _sucker_ for weddings.

“How ‘s the chauffeuring going?” he asks nervously, glancing behind his father for a sign of Derek.

“Cheryl likes him,” Dad grumbles, “Sharp sense of humor like her. Tips generously. He’s a good driver, too. Careful.”

“Is that.. _approval_ I hear?”

His dad holds back on a smile. “Let’s not make it easy for him, huh kid? He’s trying _so_ hard.”

“You’re diabolical,” Stiles grouses, relieved. “You know I’ve never seen him give a crap about anyone’s opinion about him before?”

“Says a lot for how he feels about you,” Dad replies knowingly, and yeah, that’s definitely approval.

“Where is he, anyway?” Stiles hasn’t seen him since the ceremony, when he’d tried to grab a seat beside Laura and was made sit a couple rows back with some of Allison's relatives. He didn’t look pleased.

“Said he’d meet us in here when he dropped us off,” Dad shrugs. “I’m sure he’s around.”

Stiles frowns, craning his head inside the door and searching the room. There’s no sign of Derek, and it’s almost time for the bridal party to be announced.

“Tell him to come find me, yeah?”

His dad salutes with his whiskey and backs away. Stiles stays there, a little bewildered, until Isaac grabs him for the entrance.

Derek’s still not there when he gets inside. He’s still not there when it’s time for Stiles’ best man’s speech, but just as Stiles takes the mic, he catches sight of him, quietly making his way to his seat. Stiles frowns at him, but gets an encouraging smile in return, so he takes a breath.

“I first met Scott McCall on my first day of college,” he says, “And my life has never been the same since. I first met Allison on my first day as an intern, and _Scott’s_ life hasn’t been the same since.” There’s a grin from the happy couple at that. “Something a lot of you may not know about Scott, is-- no, you guys probably already know, because Scott is the most loving, open person I’ve had the privilege to meet. When we were pre-med, two rivaling fraternities both wanted him to rush, and Scott, ever the peacekeeper, somehow managed to convince them to merge, and didn’t even end up _joining._ That’s the kind of person Scott is - selfless and honorable, and the kind of guy who can end century-long feuds by sitting two people down and talking to them.”

He plays with his tie nervously, and realizes Melissa is tearing up from a few chairs down.

“Someone like me - and if you don’t know me, all you need to know is I make a lot of mistakes and my mouth gets me into trouble sometimes - someone like me needs that perfect balance of good in their life. Scott’s made me a better person, just by being my friend, and that’s something that can’t be acquired or looked for. It’s something that just happens to you if you’re fortunate enough.”

Scott stares at him, his eyes welling up, and Stiles ruffles his hair. “Stop it, dude, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he tells him, and the room laughs.

“Now, I’m not going to give a full dating history, because I’ve been informed that’s ‘tacky’ and ‘cliché’ - thank you, Lydia - but what I will say, is that Scott’s the only person I’ve even _heard_ of stay on good terms with every single person he’s dated. Every _single_ person. Some of you in the crowd went with Scott to his first middle school dances. That’s _insane._ ”

Scott’s first girlfriend stands up to blow him a kiss, and Allison pretends to glare at her. Well, Stiles _thinks_ she’s pretending.

“So, bear in mind with me for a second, that Scott - this lovable, adorably sexy idiot beside me - is like, the ultimate catch. I’m talking kind, considerate, saves _babies_ for a living - or he will; we all hope he can complete that pesky residency. Scott’s the kind of guy you see in movies and you think, ‘okay, but nobody like that actually exists’. But he does. And the problem with that is, as his best friend, I feel like it’s my personal responsibility to make sure he ends up with someone who deserves him.” He raises a brow and shrugs. “And I used to think, come on, how the hell can that be possible? I know _I’m_ reaching a little in the best friend category, so how can there possibly be a girl out there worthy of my Scott?” Stiles smiles. “And that’s when I met Allison.”

The room coos, and Scott reaches across to nuzzle into her cheek, her face lit up with happiness.

“Allison... terrified me. I’d never met someone who could probably easily kick my ass and have me _thank_ them for it, but she’s now one of two women in my life who I wouldn’t mess with.”

Lydia raises her glass and smiles, and Stiles lays his hand on his heart when he looks at her.

“They say nurses are the most under-appreciated profession out there - and it’s true. Allison somehow manages to be an army general, a mom figure, a big sister and a walking bullshit detector, all in one twelve hour shift. She keeps us all in line and has this magical way of nurturing Scott’s improvement while accepting who he is, and I, I honestly have no clue how she does it, and I’m half expecting her to come out as a secret agent or something.”

The room laughs, and Mr Argent looks like he’s about ten seconds away from announcing to everyone who his daughter is. Even Allison’s mom looks less emotionless than usual.

“I know it’s been said in a thousand best man’s speeches by a thousand guys, but they really are the perfect couple. They love each other like it’s their first week dating. They have this respect for each other that means nothing goes undiscussed between them. I didn’t--” he swallows and looks to his dad. “My dad was on his own for a lot of my childhood, and he never let me want for anything, but I think these two, right here, are what showed me what love between two people looks like. I learn, every day, from watching them and... and it makes me _happy._ Happy to know it’s out there. Happy to know that if I play my cards right, I just might get to experience that, too, for a long time.”

He glances down at Derek, who’s got an unreadable expression on his face. Stiles lets the sentence hang, lets himself hope, again, that he’ll get to keep this, until the moment breaks. He raises his glass.

“So if you’ve ever felt for someone like they do for each other,” he says, “Or maybe if you just hope that you will, I want you to join me, in a toast, to the bride and groom.”

The room stands and pays tribute to the couple, and Stiles gets tackle-hugged in a Scott-Allison sandwich as soon as it’s done. He’s just overflowing with love and joy, and he kind of really really wants to go make out with Derek right now.

But when he’s finally put down, his eyes are automatically drawn to Derek’s seat - and that weight in his chest that was threatening to drop earlier finally does. Because Derek is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't see [this post](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com/post/115997772034/regarding-malia-and-no-superman), I will be including Malia in the next chapter in a small cameo role. Her relationship to Stiles will NOT be romantic. 
> 
> I deliberated a lot over this, since many of you started reading this story as a WIP, and it was started after Season 2 (before Malia even existed on the show) and therefore I have been tagging new characters as they've been added. Malia is a controversial one, especially in the Sterek portion of the fandom, and I'm aware that the vast majority of people would rather she didn't exist in fic. However, due to the tradition I started in this story, where I cast Teen Wolf characters as their Scrubs counterparts, and the uncanny resemblance to Denise "Jo" Mahoney's mannerisms, I wanted to include her. It was too perfect not to, and after the work I've put into this story, I didn't want to pull back. 
> 
> If you want to get an indication of the dynamic JD had with Denise in the Scrubs universe, and the play on that I'll be writing, please watch [this.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUaEdOFS5_Y)
> 
> It's not just Malia - for example, Kira is also cast as Sunny Dey, due to their similarities. I understand if this change means you'll no longer be interested in reading this story, and I respect your right to feel that way. I just ask that you respect my right as an author to make decisions for my own story. Thank you, and I hope those of you who keep reading will enjoy it.


	6. And After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles finds that Derek knows him better than he ever thought he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malia appears in this chapter, be aware.
> 
> I can't believe this is finished.

For doctors, there comes a crossroads in their lives at the end of their residency. It’s called The Boards, and of course for Stiles, it happens at the worst possible time in his life.

After Derek’s abrupt disappearance during his wedding speech, Stiles focused on Scott, and on Allison and on dancing with Lydia and Cheryl and Melissa and Erica. He stayed busy so the bowling ball in his chest wouldn’t weigh him down so much, so he wouldn’t stare at the unanswered texts and let them eat at him with worry. He took photos of Erica and Boyd with his phone so he wouldn’t call Derek, _again,_ to find out where he is, and worst of all, he’d lied to Allison when she asked to see Derek, claiming he’d be right back.

He didn’t come back.

Stiles had wound up outside, needing air and to try Derek’s phone again, hoping that it was just some misunderstanding, that maybe Derek wasn’t feeling well or that he got called to the hospital, but Stiles’ hand froze on the way to his ear, because out in the gardens of the hotel, locked in a heated conversation with a woman Stiles didn’t know, was Derek.

His posture was rigid and defensive, and the woman - beautiful. blonde and mature, looked at him like he was the prize lot at an auction she’d just won... and was about to destroy.

And that’s when Peter had appeared, like some creepy shadow, lurking in the dark.

“Can’t be easy,” he’d hissed, and Stiles startled so hard he almost dropped his glass.

“Jesus Christ, do you rehearse that?” Stiles exclaimed, tucking the phone away in his pocket.

Peter just continued, uncaring. “I mean, we all hope our relationships are strong enough to withstand past ghosts coming back to haunt us, but this thing with you and my nephew is new enough that he probably didn’t yet tell you anything about Kate.”

Stiles frowned. He _really_ didn’t want Peter to know he’d made him curious, but his heart was pounding a painful rhythm and sweat was prickling the back of his neck. He looked back at Derek and the unfamiliar woman. He needed _something._

“Who the hell is she?”

Peter almost looked sympathetic. “So you _don’t_ know. Tricky.”

“Look, if you’re not gonna tell me, I’m sure Laura will, so I’ll just go--”

“Put Derek in your position.” Peter walked toward him with the ambling pace of someone coming back from the park after a picnic. “Young, enthusiastic resident, eager for education and approval. Now put Kate where Derek is.” He narrowed his cool gaze. “Are you getting the whole picture, Stiles?”

It was the first time Peter had addressed him by his first name - well, his adopted first name - and Stiles didn’t know if the shiver running down his spine was from that or what he was being told.

Derek, finally had seen fit to give Stiles some indication what was happening after he’d gotten inside and away from Dr Restraining Order. His breath stopped when his phone vibrated in his hand with one message, three words.

 

 

> _I need space._

And Stiles has been pissed, okay? He’s been grumpy and sarcastic and it’s honestly a good thing that Scott and Allison have been on honeymoon, because living with him would be impossible. He even got mad at Scott for the fact he still has another two years of residency to go through in order to become a surgeon - _that’s_ how not chill he is.

And he’s busy. He’s _so_ busy that it’s almost a blessing that he had to study so much, because he knows from experience that when Derek actually has the guts to _ask_ for something for himself, it should be respected. Stiles is about eighty percent sure he’d end up at Derek’s apartment demanding an explanation. He’s owed that much.

Okay, so there _might_ have been some unanswered texts sent, but he was in a caffeine delirium and can’t be held accountable for that.

Between checking his phone for exam results and checking his phone for apology messages, Stiles is wearing the thing out. But finally, huddled with Lydia and Isaac in a prayer circle on a Tuesday afternoon, the results are posted.

Stiles’ stomach is in knots when he logs in, and he holds Lydia’s hand in solidarity, praying for the best.

The page loads and loads, and loads some more. Lydia utters swearwords he’s never even _heard_ before and at last, it shows up on screen.

He passed. And so did Lydia.

They run an entire victory lap around the ward and back to their spot before they realize Isaac isn’t with them. He’s sitting on a gurney, staring into space.

“Okay, buddy?” Stiles asks carefully, feeling super bad for him. “It’s not the end, I mean, you can always re-take, and in the meantime, I heard you’re really improving.”

“I passed,” Isaac mumbles.

Lydia leans forward. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“I passed. I’m a board-certified physician.”

Lydia makes the sign of the cross and Stiles looks to her in fear. It feels like horror movie music should be playing as Isaac launches up, screams like all he’s missing is a bloody chainsaw, and runs his own lap.

Lydia leans forward and hugs him again. “I don’t think I could have done this alone,” she tells him sincerely. “And neither could you.”

“Whoa, thanks Lyds,” he grumbles, and she kisses his cheek.

“I’m gonna go call my mom!” she decides, rushing off. Stiles lets out a sigh, watching her go, but feels a presence behind him that’s probably The Janitor, who seems to feel like Stiles is personally responsible that he wasn’t invited to the wedding.

He nearly falls over when he sees it’s Derek.

“I saw the celebration,” he says awkwardly. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. And thank you for... you know..”

Derek’s looking at him as he stares at his hands, being annoyingly fine about everything.“You’d have done it with the worst teacher in the world, Stiles. It’s nothing to do with me.”

Stiles can’t look right at him. What he feels, more than anything, is hurt. Discarded. Shut out.

“Can we talk?” Derek says after a moment. He licks his lips and frowns. “I owe you an explanation.”

“I got it already. From Allison,” Stiles says curtly. “She only invited her aunt out of courtesy - didn’t think she’d actually show up, and she was relieved because she was afraid of what would happen. Afraid of how it would affect _you_ because this woman screwed you over so much the first time you almost dropped out of the residency program.”

Derek closes his eyes, and Stiles watches him with pain in his expression, realizing, after compartmentalizing for so long, how angry he actually is.

“She was your attending, right? And you looked up to her. Fell for her a little? And she used that.”

Derek’s eyes open again, and the raw, exposed devastation in them almost makes Stiles want to stop. Like he's been caught with his worst secrets under a microscope, and for someone like him, it’s a nightmare. But Stiles has needed to say this for a while now, and he deserves to talk it out if given the chance.

“That’s not what we are, Derek. I fell for you slowly. I tried to kid myself that I wasn’t because that’s how much you mean to me. I didn’t dare cheapen the connection I felt toward you with attraction, because the respect I have for you is so much more important than some crush. Look, I don’t know what that woman said to you. I don’t think I _want_ to know - but don’t patronize me by assuming that’s what this is, some infatuation. Don’t presume to know the intricacies of my feelings for you without asking me. I afforded you that once, I deserved the same.”

He turns away before his resolve breaks, and doesn’t know if he’s frustrated or relieved when Derek lets him get the last word, for once.

* * *

 

“Is that Lydia’s bathrobe?”

Stiles glances away from hour three of his That’s So Raven marathon to glance down at himself.

“Maybe? I like the way it lets air circulate around my knees.”

“And other things, unfortunately,” Lydia mutters, pulling half a bagel out of her mouth and kissing Laura on the cheek.

“Is this some kind of cry for help?” Laura asks, gesturing to Stiles’ general lounging state. He’s been crashing with Lydia for a week now, not yet ready to find his own place since he’s not sure if he should, you know, sign a lease.

“Wouldn’t it be awesome to see the future?” Stiles says thoughtfully, watching Raven get another vision. “Life would be so much easier.”

“And shitty. Imagine never getting surprised. Knowing when you meet someone, exactly how your relationship will pan out. You’d never go on another date again.”

“Sounds pretty great to me,” Stiles says lowly, and Lydia comes to a stop beside Laura with her jacket on.

“Give it up,” she tells her girlfriend. “He’s in full-on Philosopher mode. Just be happy you weren’t here for Rhetorical Question mode. _‘Will I ever get to be happy, Lyds?_ ’ No, and neither will I if you don’t stop harshing my buzz.”

“You’re such a good friend,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Really, thanks for that.”

“I did your laundry because you were afraid you’d find something of Derek’s in the load. We’re balanced on the friend front.”

“Look, I’m not defending my brother,” Laura says carefully, “But you guys spent way too long figuring your shit out to give up now. Don’t write him off yet, Stiles.”

“He’s been pretty quick to lay the judgement on me, unless I’m mistaken,” Stiles tells her.

“Hypothetically, if I were to run Kate Argent over with my car and make it look like an accident, would that help in any way?”

“Not really,” Stiles shrugs.

“Can I do it _anyway?_ With Peter’s car?” she asks thoughtfully. “With Peter strapped to the front of it?”

“Hey, I’m gonna be late. Wanna stay here with Negative Nancy and his feelings or give me a ride to work and make out in the parking lot?” Lydia cuts in, thankfully extinguishing the manic look in Laura’s eye.

“Please take your happy-couple-ness somewhere else,” Stiles grumbles, “I moved out of Scott’s for a reason.”

“You moved out because Allison married one guy, not two, and she wanted to actually spend time with her husband now and then.” Lydia throws his pants at him and switches the channel to CNN.

“Scott would never treat me this way.”

“Scott _spoils_ you. Stop making my apartment smell like sadness. Laura?”

Laura gives him a look like she wants to say more, but picks up her keys.

“Big boys, Laura,” she sighs to herself, and shakes her head.

* * *

 

Because he’s technically a board-certified _attending_ now, Stiles’ life comes with a whole new set of fun responsibilities. They’re known as interns, and honestly, Stiles has no idea how he didn’t get murdered in his first year out of med-school, if he put the senior staff through this shit.

“Kira, I know this would make a super fun snapchat and all, but could you maybe put _down_ the phone until we’ve stopped his bleeding?”

“Sorry!” she says, pocketing the thing. “It’s _gnarly_ though, right? I kind of want to puke!”

“I don’t know why you’re trying,” Malia cuts in, arms folded. “He’s dead.”

“Malia, hear the beeping monitors? The way he’s writhing in pain--”

“ _Fuck ALL of you!”_

“-- the shouting? Usually indicates not-dead. Here, hold this.”

Malia frowns as she’s handed the patient’s leg to prop up so Stiles can get a better look at his busted stitches.

“His incision looks like a vagina.”

Kira leans over her, eyes wide. “It really does! Should I page Dr McCall?”

Stiles narrows his eyes as the man’s sedative takes effect, and gently retrieves the leg from Malia’s shoulder. “This isn’t even Scott’s patient. Why do you always want to page Dr McCall?”

“No reason!” Kira meeps, and pretends to be really busy with her phone again.

“We’re going to get his sutures re-done and have a surgeon check over the site of his incision for further damage. Malia, can I talk to you?” he asks, guiding her away from the bed.

“What’s up,” she says, cocking her head. “Need me to smash Yukimura’s phone?”

“What? No! I want to talk about your bedside manner.”

“Oh, is this because I told that paraplegic kid to suck it up?”

“I think your words were ‘you don’t want it hard enough,’” Stiles frowns.

“How do we really know he’s not faking? I used to do all sorts of shit to get out of math class.”

“Because he hasn’t had the use of his legs since _birth_ \- way before he even knew what math class was.”

“Sure, if he’s _dedicated_ enough,” she sniffs, scrunching her nose.

“Then there was the gastric bypass patient you ate a box of donuts in front of because you said she ‘should get to that know other people still enjoy crullers’, the husband of the coma patient who you asked if his wife’s condition meant he was ‘technically single,’” he lists off, thinking. “The grandfather of six you asked if it felt like he was a burden when one of his grandkids had her tenth birthday here... the attending you told that he wears too much hair product. How does none of this seem wrong to you?”

“I’m giving them pain meds and prolonging their lives. You’re saying I have to be all nice and sweet to them too?”

“All they need is a little respect for their feelings,” Stiles says softly. “And it was humid that day.”

“Your hair looked like a giant splooged on it.”

“I’m fighting a losing battle,” Stiles mutters aloud. “You have no soul.”

“Hey, I have a soul.” she says, affronted. “Just yesterday I went above and beyond to run an errand for a cancer patient.”

“You bought him _cigarettes,”_ Stiles flails. “He has _lung_ cancer.”

“So nobody else would do it.” She gives him a happily clueless look, and Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Go. Please go before I lose faith in humanity.”

“Aren’t interns the _best?_ ” Scott asks just as one’s handing him a frappucino. “Thanks, Liam!”

“How is it that you get the enthusiastic, eager-to-learn ones and I get ones I’m afraid to fall asleep in front of in case they start rehearsing how to insert catheters?”

“Deaton got to choose, not me,” Scott shrugs, sucking on his straw. “And they’re not _perfect -_ Madison keeps bursting into tears every time I correct her on something.”

He gestures across to where a doe-eyed intern is hovering over the busted stitches from earlier, hands aloft, muttering ‘ _what would Scott do?’_ over and over again.

“I’d definitely start cleaning up the wound to start, Madison!” he calls back to her, and she gives him a wide-eyed nod. “She’s a work in progress.”

“Isn’t that the one who recognized you from Vine?” Stiles squints. Scott nods.

“Yeah, I think she kind of worships me, isn’t this cool?”

“Malia intimidated me out of a sandwich this morning,” Stiles grouses, “I can’t relate.”

“You’ll get through to her, dude,” Scott soothes with a hand on his shoulder. “It could be worse - you could be using Derek’s methods.” Stiles follows his gaze to where Derek is pointing at his own face.

“When my nostrils start doing this? This flaring thing?” he says to an intern who looks barely old enough to have graduated high school - must be Mason, the child prodigy. “That’s your cue to run away.”

“Whoa, chill man?” the bravest intern in existence is saying. “Lemme just google this--”

“Ten,” Derek says. “Nine, _eight._.”

It’s a wonder Stiles didn’t publicly wet himself during his first year here, if those rage-brows were always that intense. Thinking back to simpler times makes the gouged-out feeling that seeing Derek gives his insides a little less sharp. Being around a not-quite-ex-what-even-are-we every day? Literal hell.

“You made a decision yet?” Scott asks, cutting in to Stiles’ reverie.

He sighs. “No? I mean...”

“Is it still about the power dynamic thing?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever grow here if he keeps seeing me as a person he needs to shield from things. And he’ll never get to change his view of me if I move away completely. It’s a catch-22.”

“When you’re done talking about feelings or whatever, that old man just asked if I’d let him fondle my feet for a minute. I don’t really care, but that’s not the bedside manner you were talking about, right?”

Stiles slumps. “No, Malia. Not what I meant.”

“Cool,” she nods seriously. “Didn’t think so.”

Scott grins excitedly at him after she walks off shouting, “He said no!”

“See? I told you she’d start listening to you!”

* * *

 

“I have taken a lady-friend,” The Janitor announces. Stiles has no idea why it warranted an announcement.

“Congratulations,” Boyd tells him, and goes right back into talking his grandmother through setting up Netflix.

Stiles squints. “Really. What’s her name?”

“Jan.”

“Her name is _Jan?_ ” Stiles splutters, and Allison gives him a cool look. “Like JAN-itor?”

“I think that’s great,” she tells The Janitor kindly. “When do we get to meet her?”

“Right now. JAN!”

“Yes sweetie?”

An oddly familiar-looking woman comes up to The Janitor’s side and loops an arm through his. She’s got her hair cut all short and poofy on top, going long down the back like a mullet, and she appears to have some kind of hyperhidrosis disorder.

“You look familiar,” Stiles frowns.

“Nice to meet you, Jan,” Erica beams, sliding off the counter to shake her hand and promptly wipe it on the side of her lab-coat.

It’s the sweating that tips Stiles off.

“Greenberg?!” Stiles yells, staring at her. He looks around at a set of blank faces, and the Janitor’s eyes do this super-intimidating bulgey thing.

“I’m sorry, who?” Jan says, and Stiles holds his hands out.

“What?” Greenberg sighs, coming out of the bathroom. Stiles does a double-take, because it’s seriously _uncanny_ down to the bone-structure and the haircut. Jan’s even wearing a pant-suit.

“Seriously? You’ve gotta be a long lost twin or something. You’re telling me you aren’t related to him?”

“I’m meeting Bobby’s friends for the first time today,” she says unsurely, before looking at Greenberg. “Hello!”.

Stiles turns to The Janitor. “ _Bobby?!_ ”

“Yes?”

“How-- your name is _Bobby!?_ ”

The Janitor straightens up proudly. “Bobby Finstock, why?”

“But you... we never...” Stiles looks around. “He never told anyone his name, right?”

“Stiles, you know Bobby,” Allison says to him with a confused smile. Erica holds her hands out like she doesn’t see the issue, and even Boyd throws in a shrug.

“ _No?_ Your name-- you never _told_ me your name...”

“You never asked,” The Janitor says. He narrows his eyes again. “Are you okay?”

Stiles is lost. He thinks he might be losing it, because no way was all of this happening right now. Was he seriously this dense? I _s everyone in on this?_

“Your name is... and you have a... What the _fuck._ ”

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t swear in front of the lady,” The Janitor says irritably. “And stop making a scene.”

“ _A scene?!_ ”Stiles shouts, and Allison gently tugs him away.

“Stiles, you’re acting really strange,” she says worriedly.

“What a mean, bitter little person,” the Janitor tuts, and Stiles has to sit down.

“I’m sure he’s having a bad day, sweetie,” Jan says soothingly. “These doctors are under a lot of stress, and not everyone can be as happy and in love as we are.” She faces Stiles. “You’ll find it one day!”

Jan smiles with warmth, and Stiles slumps into the nearest chair.

“Thanks for the support, Jan,” he mutters dazedly, and lets his head fall into his hands.

* * *

 

“-- _Thought it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to you, Stiles. Your father has been a wonderful ally to this hospital and its staff throughout his professional career, and we’d be overjoyed to have another Stilinski working with us.”_

Stiles’ mouth goes dry. “Uh, thank you, sir. I’m kind of thrown here, sorry...”

“ _I understand. We’re not looking for a decision right away. The attending you’d be taking the place of doesn’t go on maternity leave for another four months. Think about it. There’s a place for you at Beacon Hills Memorial if you’re interested._ ”

“I’ll give it some thought, thanks for the offer.”

“ _No problem, Stiles. Take care._ ”

“You too. Bye.”

Stiles stares at the screen after the call drops. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed or touched by the fact his dad put in a word for him. Stiles clearly wasn’t doing so great at coming across as positive and breezy through their phone calls as he assumed.

“Sounded important.”

He jerks back to the moment, realizing for the first time that Derek is working quietly, standing at the desk with a stack of patient files in front of him. He’s obviously trying to mask his look of caution with nonchalance, and doing a piss-poor job of it.

Stiles locks his phone screen and pockets it. “It was,” he says, unwilling to give any more away.

Derek swallows hard and nods. He writes something down and reads, and Stiles’ mind strays back to the job offer.

“I reacted badly, before,” Derek volunteers, seemingly from nowhere.

It takes Stiles a moment to realize that Derek’s picking up in the middle of their last proper conversation, like Derek’s been thinking of little else since, and he raises a brow. Derek puts down his pen and gives him his full, apprehensive attention.

“Look, I’m not going to say what happened with Kate didn’t change me,” he continues. “I’m not going to say that someone abusing their power and using my family’s legacy to further their own goals hasn’t made me... guarded or fucked up or whatever, because it did.” He frowns down at the pages in thought. “But how I feel about _you_ changed me too. I’ve never... I’ve never cared so much for someone before. I’ve never worried about protecting them from my actions or the consequences of other people’s actions...” He looks up. “Until you.”

Stiles could forgive those eyes. Those eyes could look at him and ask him anything, and he’d do it. And that’s why he can’t buckle and relent. Because he deserves to be treated as an equal, not a responsibility.

“Well,” Stiles breathes deeply. “That’d be great, except I don’t need protecting. I don’t need a father-figure, because in case you didn’t notice, my dad’s pretty damn amazing.” He gestures between their chests. “The dynamic between you and I had changed, whether you noticed or not, and I’m not a baby intern you need to give pep-talks to. I’m your colleague. _Supposed_ to be your partner. You don’t get to shut me out because of some misguided idea of shielding me from your life. I’m _in_ your life. Or I could’ve been.”

Derek’s brow furrows, and Stiles tries to calm the roiling in his gut to continue.

“There’s a possibility of a job. Closer to my hometown. They need cover for maternity leave - a year or so, I guess, and... I haven’t fully decided yet. It’s pretty out of the blue...”

“Are you thinking taking it?” Derek rasps.

“I don’t know,” Stiles answers honestly.

Derek looks pensive, his shoulders square and stiff and his jaw working overtime. “If you do, will you... would you come back?”

Stiles doesn’t know the answer to that, either.

“I need to think,” is the response on which he settles. “A lot. I don’t know if you and I can ever really be what I’d like us to be, considering how we met, and I think... I think I have to figure out what the best solution is here. I just need time to do that.”

Derek grinds his jaw once more, and Stiles thinks back to teasing him about it, back to a thousand things he’s been lucky enough to learn about Derek over the last few months, and he kind of feels like he’s tearing open. Like his insides are spilling out in a way not even the best surgeons in the world could fix.

“I understand,” Derek says. “I won’t-- You should.. Do what’s best for you.”

Stiles rolls his lips between his teeth. It’s all he could ever ask for.

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

Lydia sits down next to him in the cafeteria with a perplexed look on her face. Stiles waits for her to talk, and when she continues staring into space, he swallows his mouthful and nudges her shin with his foot.

“Everything okay there?”

“Remember that post-op patient Deaton lost and pathology couldn’t figure out the cause?”

“The one the interns claim just ‘gave up’?” Stiles says blithely. “Yeah, what about him?”

“Paracentesis needle to the aorta. Isaac called it.”

Stiles pulls a face, failing to see how that’s in any way impressive. “So? Wait...didn’t he do that in his first week? I found him sobbing in one of the supply closets.”

Lydia nods fervently and snags a slice of pepperoni off his pizza. “And he figured out like, three other dead-ends pathology were stuck on within _seconds_.” She snaps her fingers to emphasize.

“ _Lahey?_ ”

“He’s like, a savant or something.” Lydia looks genuinely impressed, and Stiles shoots her a withering look.

“You mean he’s an expert in being a terrible doctor and losing patients.”

“He’s found his calling,” she shrugs, “It’s kind of great.”

“Is it though?” Stiles says, just as Isaac ambles in, flanked by Scott, who’s congratulating him like he just cured diabetes. He makes his way through the cafeteria, getting back-pats and handshakes from everyone Scott tells with that proud-big-brother tenacity that only Scott can manage.

Stiles must have hit a new low, because the fact that he’s jealous of _Isaac_ for finding direction in his life is pretty messed up.

Kira the intern goes legit _starry-eyed_ when she hears the news - and not, for the first time Stiles notices - because Scott’s the one talking to her. Isaac found his calling _and_ he’s probably going to get laid by a cute intern?

Stiles tosses his pizza crust back on to his tray and shakes his head.

“I’m done,” he says, “The world doesn’t make sense anymore.”

“Stop being so dramatic. Be happy for Isaac,” Lydia scolds, and Stiles stares at the guy who has everything figured out, doing some kind of awkward flirting ritual with Stiles’ most morbidly-curious intern. Something in him shifts.

“I think I’m gonna take that job,” he decides, right then. Lydia turns to him in concern, resting a hand on his arm.

“You’re sure?” she asks.

Stiles glances across the cafeteria to where he’s resolutely been trying _not_ to look, where the Hales are sitting embroiled in deep conversation, and nods.

“Yeah. I can’t... I don’t think I can be here anymore.” He wonders if part of him wanted Derek to argue with him that day he got the call from Beacon Hills; to demand they hash things out like they always do and Stiles would know that he really did have an impact on his life somehow. That Derek’s life would be different without him in it.

The more mature part of him is grateful for the chance to make the choice for himself, no matter the detriment to his feelings. He’s trying to be mature.

Lydia takes a breath as if to argue, but bites it back, following his gaze and letting her face melt from concern into understanding.

“Okay,” she says.

* * *

 

His last day at Sacred Heart feels like it’s pulling his lungs out through his ribs. He reverts to nostalgia, trailing his hands along the walls, getting choked up every time he realizes it might be the last time he really sees some of these people.

He’ll always remember Nurse Boyd, cool-headed and immovable, a fixture at the nurses’ station. Greenberg, constantly sweating, talking like he’s always delivering the worst news of his life. Erica, too talented and beautiful for this place, smirking as she finds a new person she can make into a project. Jackson, representing everything Stiles hates in the world along with Chief Hale. The Janitor, plotting some other way to fuck Stiles’ shit up, for no reason.

Lydia, terrifying and brilliant, ordering everyone around like she’s next in line to be Chief.

He knows Scott and Allison will be in his life forever, but the part of him who didn’t want to move out also balks at the thought of not seeing Scott every single day, of having to settle on hearing his voice through a phone instead of being able to go find him when he has a crisis.

He wonders how the interns will come out. Malia’s weaknesses are Mason’s strengths, and vice-versa. He sees a little of himself and Lyds in their dynamic, actually. Kira’s morbid curiosity is matched only by Isaac, and she’s the only one who seems to speak his language, in a strange way. They’re still babies, by hospital standards. Stiles is a very different person than the guy he was four years ago. Maybe he’s less green, maybe he’s a little more jaded, but the journey has been invaluable, and every single person he’s met has contributed to it, in some way, somehow.

None more so than Derek. Stiles takes a second on his way out of the hospital - on the way home from his final, official shift - to watch him work. His no-nonsense, pedantic methods are strangely comforting in their familiarity, when everything else in his life seems to be hanging off a precipice and about to drop into the unknown.

Stiles couldn’t bring himself for a goodbye. He’d made the announcement to everyone at once, because telling everyone individually felt like too much to bear; too many wounds to re-open.

“I think Martin’s just bitchy because Stilinski’s leaving,” Malia says loudly, not realizing Stiles is there.

“I can understand,” Kira says, looking up from her paperwork. “They’re best friends.”

Stiles sees Derek’s shoulders freeze from the other side of the room, and his head rises as he listens.

“Pssh, yeah, but everyone’s acting like he’s the greatest thing to ever happen to this hospital. I mean, he was _good_ , but it’s not that big a deal.”

Malia frowns when a shadow falls over her, and Kira’s expression morphs into deer-in-headlights when she realizes they’ve been caught.

“For your information,” Derek starts evenly, “Stiles Stilinski was one of the greatest doctors to ever come through this shithole. He’s the first person I met who not only valued patient care above all else, but had the intelligence to use his talents and potential to better the lives of everyone around him, regardless of the personal compromises he had to make.”

Stiles’ breath stops, and Kira looks up and catches sight of him. He presses a finger to his lips.

“Stiles had a way of finding the good in the pile of steaming bullshit we deal with every day. He was positive without being naive, and that’s a quality that every doctor strives to have, and most never do. Stiles could be an outstanding professional and yet make every day working with him feel like an adventure, because that’s what being around him felt like. He came here as my student, but he taught me more about connecting with people, about leaning on others and _being_ leaned on than I ever thought possible. He’s not only a phenomenal doctor, but a phenomenal person - my partner, my adviser, my... my--There won’t be a day that goes by that I don’t berate myself for letting him slip through my fingers and out of my life.”

Stiles swallows and both girls look down, his heart pounding a syncopated rhythm until it feels like it’s in his throat. He doesn’t notice that his eyes are welling up until Derek turns and stills, realizing he’s there for the first time.

“Stiles...” he says roughly. “I thought you’d--”

He doesn't get the sentence out before Stiles is running to him, reaching out to put a hand on his jaw and kissing him like he’s desperate for it. His head swims with the words; the most he’s ever heard Derek say about him all at once, and it feels like there’s a swelling in his lungs, like they’re filling up with the happiness that’s pouring right out of Derek and into him. Derek doesn’t react for a moment, and then careful, gentle hands are coming up to keep him there; one to the space between his shoulders, one to his hair, and Stiles feels his eyes spill over with emotion over hearing everything he ever needed him to say.

When he breathes again, it’s right against Derek’s mouth, and he huffs out a non-laugh as Derek finishes, “--already left...”

Conscientiously, Derek pulls back to look at Stiles in wonderment, his eyes darting around his face. He thumbs away a tear, and his lips are kiss-bitten and pink.

“I’m kind of glad I hadn’t,” Stiles says with a watery smile. “You were holding out on me.” He cuffs Derek gently on the chin, and he raises his brows.

“It’s supposed to be your choice - I’m trying to respect that. I don’t want my feelings to influence you into staying if it’s not what you really want.”

“You mean... you’re prepared to let me leave, even though you don’t want me to? The one time I probably _need_ your input, I wasn’t going to get it?”

“Like you’ve really listened to me since your first year as resident,” Derek tells the ceiling dispassionately, before his features grow serious. “Don’t stay because of me, Stiles. But...if you need me to ask you to, I will.”

Stiles looks down, plays with the badge with Derek’s ID on it. “You’re still the most contradictory asshole I ever met, you know that?”

“I kind of need someone to keep me in line.”

“Well I gather you do respect my opinion a whole lot.”

Derek kisses him again, and the cautious note to it breaks Stiles’ heart a little, like he’s scared it won’t be enough - like _he_ won’t be enough, like that was ever possible.

“All I needed to know was that you don’t see me as some burden,” Stiles says. “I wanna be by your side, not a step behind you, and if you can promise me that, I... I think I’d like to stay.”

Derek looks at him like he barely dares hope to get what he wants. “Stiles, I promise you, you’re the only person in my life I feel like I can be myself with. Like I can really learn from. You’re my balance. My conscience. I’ll prove it to you, if you’ll give me the chance..”

Stiles presses his lips to his the way he _wants_ to be kissed; giving as good as he gets, pushing back as much as he’s taking. Derek catches on at once, fisting his hands in the material over his back and doing all the asking his words couldn’t. It’s a _give me a chance_ kiss, a _you complete me_ , kiss. A _please stay with me_ kiss. Stiles loses his footing at the end of it, and leans his weight on Derek's’ frame like he’ll be swept away if he doesn't. He huffs a self-conscious laugh, buzzing with adrenaline and hormones and emotion. Derek keeps pressing his lips to him where he can - his temple, his cheek, his neck. He doesn’t seem to care that they’re in the middle of a ward, sleeping patients and curious interns around them, but Stiles remembers.

“Uh, Derek,” he says awkwardly. “I’m totally all-in here, like a crazy amount but... you think maybe you could help me get my job back?”

Derek stares at him for a second, before letting out a smile that would blind the sun.

“I’ll think about it,” he laughs abruptly. _Laughs_ like Stiles has never heard before. It’s so genuine and free that Stiles presses a hand to his face.

 _Holy shit,_ he thinks, watching this ridiculous guy light up the entire room. _I’m so fucking smitten._

* * *

 

_**Two Years Later** _

Stiles’ hands curl in the bed sheets. He bites his lip, willing himself not to come yet. He _needs_ to hold out just a little longer. He has a bet to win.

Derek’s hand snakes around to his front, and Stiles grabs it, pinning it against the bed.

“Ngh-- no _cheating._ ”

Derek laughs a hot breath against his back. “Competitive fucker.” He circles his hips in another thrust that punches Stiles’ breath away.

“You’re the one who said you could make me-- _ah_... make me come before we had to get dressed for the ceremony.”

“Didn’t say it was gonna be untouched,” Derek tells him, biting at the skin of his shoulder.

The ocean breeze traces cool fingers across Stiles’ skin, and he shudders at the sensation, tightening his muscles and startling a grunt out of Derek’s chest. His hips snap forward suddenly, and he gets this _angle_ that makes fireworks start exploding in Stiles’ head. Derek hits it again, then again, and it’s all Stiles can do to support his own weight as his climax washes over him and he messes up the crisp hotel sheets in thick, messy spurts.

He comes back to himself with Derek’s arm bound around his middle, holding him upright as he rides the crest and falls back to earth. They fall over on to their sides, and Derek pulls out and instantly gets a hand around himself, finishing off with a curse when Stiles feels him spill over his backside in warm pulses. Stiles breathes so hard the cotton billows up in front of him, closing his eyes.

“I honestly don’t know why you work out,” he says breathlessly. “We could just do this all the time. Well, _more_ all the time.”

“‘More all the time’?” Derek repeats.

“Fuck you, you melted my brain.”

“You lost the bet,” Derek says smugly. “Now you get to sit next to Allison during the wedding.”

The _Janitor’s_ wedding, because for some reason unknown to Stiles, he’s actually managed to convince a real, sane lady to be his wife. The past two years has been a lot of finding their footing and letting the dust of medical training settle. Stiles has said a lot of sentences he never believed he would, not just “I’m going to the Bahamas to watch my mortal enemy get married.”

Scott’s an attending now, and an expectant father to a little girl. Anyone would think _he’s_ the pregnant one, if the way he’s practically glowing was any indication.

Lydia and Laura are on-again-off-again, currently very much _on_ ; Lydia’s pursuing an endocrinology fellowship since she got bored of dominating everyone at Sacred Heart, but she moved into Stiles and Derek’s building, and they see her more than they ever did.

Jackson is well on his way to becoming one of the foremost cosmetic surgeons in the state, currently planning to move to London - Ontario, not England.

Peter announced his early retirement last month - apparently he’s still a celebrity in Hungary and plans to go re-launch his career there - and the board is currently interviewing for replacements (spoiler alert - Laura says Derek’s totally got it).

Greenberg finally went all _Office Space_ on the hospital after Peter announced he was leaving, and is currently suspended for damage to private property.

Boyd and Erica still reign as the hospital's most judgmental couple, but Stiles has it on good authority that he’s saving up for a ring. That’s another wedding they’re going to be going to, if Boyd gets his grandmother’s permission to actually ask.

Stiles groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “Allison’s going to chew my face off.”

“She had to come to 100 degree weather while heavily pregnant to a resort where everyone’s drinking all the time. You’d be grouchy too.”

“I don’t know how Scott does it. Honestly, she yelled at him because her ice cream was too cold yesterday and he melted it into a milkshake with his bare hands.”

“You’re the one who said they’re the perfect couple,” Derek points out, scratching at the unfair perfection that is his belly. Stiles turns over to look at him and runs a palm over his chest.

“I think we’re catching up,” he says, flicking at one of Derek’s nipples. He hisses with the shock of it and crooks an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? Big talk from the guy who fell asleep while I was talking to him on the plane.”

“I took a Valium, you brought my pillow with you - you _knew_ it would happen.”

“It was rude as fuck.”

Stiles presses his nose into Derek’s cheek. “I love you, though,” he says as a diffusing tactic.

“Yeah,” Derek says boredly, not letting him away with it. Stiles cups his cheek to make eye contact.

“No really. I love you. I--" He takes a deep breath, readying himself. "Derek, I love you as much as I love Scott.”

Derek’s reaction is wordless. His brows jump, and Stiles kind of wants to roll around at how shocked the guy looks to be told that. He soaks it in; looks at Stiles' lips and back to his eyes.

“You’re serious?”

“I don’t joke about this kind of thing, dude.”

Derek surges up reach a proper angle to kiss him, leaving a lingering press on his lips. He opens his eyes with a dreamy look and smiles down.

“I love you too," he says fervidly, so filled with complete, honest conviction that it sweeps through Stiles like a wave, warming his extremities and lighting up every synapse. Derek grins. "But you still have to sit next to Allison.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am [howlnatural](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
